


House of the Dragon

by kebabeater1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also Bran is no longer the 3ER, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jon Snow, Bran isn't King, D&D suck, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Gen, Half-Sibling Incest, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon's name is now Aemon, Minor Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Multi, N plus A equals A, Not A Fix-It, Other, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08, Post-Season/Series 08 AU, R Plus L Equals J, at all, but I'm going to try and work with their ending anyway, but mostly show, mix of show and tv universe, not sansa friendly, which I do not condone IRL but this is a Targ fic so screw it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 165,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kebabeater1/pseuds/kebabeater1
Summary: Westeros comes apart at the seams after the destruction of King's Landing and the death of Daenerys Targaryen. Jon Snow departs to Beyond the Wall, where winter no longer holds sway over the land, running from his name, his heritage, and his duty.But when a new threat rises from across the sea, and forces him to come back to everything he'd thought he'd escaped from, he learns that Alliser Thorne was right: Jon is destined to fight their battles forever.Takes place after season 8, with three major divergences: Rhaenys/Aegon live, Jon is named Aemon Targaryen, and Bran does not become King; rather, Westeros splits into independent kingdoms.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen/Arianne Martell, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark (Mentioned), Edric "Ned" Dayne/Sansa Stark, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 726
Kudos: 858





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> THIS IS NOT A JONERYS FIC. I love Jonerys. I ship it. But this is not a Jonerys fic. If you expect a happy Jonerys ending, you will leave disappointed. If you want a positive Daenerys, you will leave disappointed. If you want a non-mad Daenerys, you will leave disappointed. Yes, I completely 100% agree that D&D fucked up Daenerys and a host of other characters. It's not even that Daenerys went mad that pisses me off, it's the clumsy way they rushed it. 
> 
> This is my one and only disclaimer because I will not address anything regarding why Dany died, or why she's going to be an absolute terror. This is dark Dany. I'm challenging myself to write with the canon ending mostly intact with three major AU divergences from canon - Aegon VI and Rhaenys survive, Jon was named Aemon, not Aegon at birth, and Westeros fractures into independent kingdoms after Daenerys' death as no one can agree on Jon becoming king or anyone else becoming king.
> 
> Another minor divergence: sorry, Bronn fans. I wasn't going to make Bronn the Lord of the Reach for shits and giggles. I can buy him jumping high, just not that high. I think what he gets here is a little more believable... and it suits Bronn more, tbh.
> 
> Oh, and characters will die. It's GoT lmao.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Jon watch the Realm dissolve.

**Prologue**

**Tyrion - I**

Tyrion Lannister knew that this was the end of the Seven Kingdoms. To think anything else was folly. 

He spared a glance at the man brought forth in chains. It seemed strangely appropriate that the last dragon in Westeros would be chained up in the Dragonpit. No, Jon Snow - Aemon Targaryen, he reminded himself - could not be King, not anymore. No Targaryen would ever be the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms after the destruction of King's Landing. And yet, when he glanced at Jon, he saw only the bastard he'd befriended on a trip North to the Wall, a man who'd tried to restore his queen to her throne with honor, a lover who'd cast aside his love to fulfill his duty to the realms of men. 

Once, Jon had told Tyrion of Ser Alliser Thorne's last words to him. He'd said, before the noose ended him, that Jon would be fighting their battles forever. 

Jon looked back at him, and the two men exchanged small nods. They understood each other; dwarves and bastards, they were, the both of them - even if Jon had ended up not being a bastard in the end. 

His attention snapped back to the bickering lords in front of him. The Lord Paramount of each kingdom was here. Tyrion cleared his throat and surveyed each person there carefully, knowing that he was looking upon the last time the lords of a unified Westeros would be gathered. 

At least, until the next Aegon the Conqueror, if ever there was to be one.

At the far left of the council was Gendry, now Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and ruler of the Stormlands. Next to him sat a rather discomfited Edmure Tully, who looked decidedly unpleased to be seated next to a jumped-up bastard. Tyrion suppressed a smirk at that, reminded of Catelyn Stark.

If Edmure Tully regarded Lord Baratheon with distrust, he still would rather sit next to him than Yara Greyjoy the Kraken, whom he positively eyed with disgust. Next to Greyjoy sat Manfrey Martell and Arianne Martell. Manfrey looked incredibly uncomfortable, and the beautiful Arianne looked at everyone around her (particularly Lord Baratheon, Tyrion noted) with a kind of hunger that made most men squirm. Manfrey might be the new Prince of Dorne, but Tyrion wouldn't wager for that being the case long, with Arianne pulling the strings. 

Next to the Martells sat Lord Leyton Hightower, representing the Reach, though the Reach was likely a powder keg looking to erupt into a civil war between the Redwynes and the Hightowers. Next to Hightower sat Sansa, Arya, and Bran Stark, representing the North, and next to them was their cousin Robyn Arryn of the Vale. 

And then, of course, there was Lord Bronn Blackwater, who'd been granted the Twins and sworn to Edmure Tully. Bronn had wanted Highgarden, but that was absurd - only deluded men, prone to writing poor prose and fantasy, would think that some no-name sellsword would be elevated to the former seat of a great house without the connections and power to hold it. The Redwynes and Hightowers would have had his head in a matter of days. But when Tyrion heard about what Bronn had been granted, he laughed heartily. Bronn was better than Walder Frey, but the Twins would be held by a prickly cunt for years more - just not a Frey cunt. 

Then there was Tyrion himself, representing the Westerlands - Lord Lannister. He suppressed a smirk as he thought of his father and what he'd think of him now. Granted, the Lannisters of Lannisport and some of the other houses might take issue with being ruled by a dwarf, but he was more Tywin Lannister than Jamie or Cersei.

There was Samwell Tarly, too, representing the Maesters and the learned men of Westeros. Grey Worm stood guard next to Jon, giving all present a dead stare.

And last, and perhaps least, in the middle of all these great lords and ladies, sat Aemon Targaryen, rightfully First of his Name, the man who should be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Tyrion watched all the great Lords and Ladies of the realm bicker amongst themselves as to who should rule. Jon watched them too, his eyes glassed over. Tyrion knew that look - the man wasn't here in the Dragonpit, with the rest of them. He was still in front of the Iron Throne, still in the ruins of the Red Keep, his dagger buried in the chest of the woman he loved.

Tyrion knew there was only one outcome for the Seven Kingdoms now because unless by some miracle they agreed upon Jon, they would never agree upon a new king.

That outcome came as expected when - after Samwell Tarly's silly suggestion that perhaps all people, including commoners, should get a say in choosing the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa Stark boldly stood up and declared the North's independence from the realm, and her uncle Edmure bent the knee to her as the Queen in the North _and_ of the Trident, leaving only Six. Bran Stark looked on with the same muted look as if he was there and not there all at once. Robyn Arryn, flanked by Yohn Royce, no doubt instigated to it by his Stark cousins, was next to leave as King of Mountain and Vale, leaving only Five.

It was Lord Hightower who made it Four - though Tyrion knew it was still up in the air as to whether Leyton Hightower or Paxter Redwyne would sit as King of the Reach - and then Yara Greyjoy made it Three when she proclaimed herself Queen of the Iron Islands. The Reachmen, Westerlanders, and Northerners had all cringed at that, though something in Sansa Stark's ghost of a smile told Tyrion that perhaps the Northerners needed not be as concerned as they thought.

Dorne left next - Tyrion didn't miss the absolute hunger with which Arianne Martell eyed Jon Snow in chains, no doubt seeing an opportunity to bring a Dragon under her control - and then there were only Tyrion and Gendry, both exchanging sheepish glances with one another.

Five minutes later, they were King Tyrion of the Rock, Fourth of his Name, and Storm King Gendry, First of his Name.

The Realm was no more - now there truly were Seven Kingdoms, with seven rulers. No one made mention of the Crownlands, but Tyrion knew there would be blood spilled over it eventually between all bordering kingdoms. No doubt the Stormlanders would seek to add as much territory to their realm as possible, especially under the gods-damned hammer-wielding son of Robert, who looked like the second coming of the beloved Renly Baratheon himself.

And the greatest irony of it all was that a man named Aemon Targaryen sat in the midst of them all, watching them tear apart the kingdom founded by his ancestor.

"Your Graces," Tyrion said delicately, to the newly assembled host of monarchs in front of him. "We decided to leave the matter of Aemon Targaryen until the Council chose a new king. Seeing as we have decided to disband the Realm altogether, in favor of our individual kingdoms, I propose that we should decide his fate with a vote among us monarchs. Aemon Targaryen is a claimant to a now non-existent throne; no ruling body has true authority over him." He could see Sansa Stark bristle at that, but it was true. Jon was no Snow, not anymore, and whether or not the Starks considered him a brother, the truth was that he was a Targaryen.

He was the only one here, out of all of them, that had a claim worth a damn to a united realm. And that made him a threat to many. Tyrion scanned the faces of the monarchs present. Gendry was Jon's friend; he would vote for some kind of exile, something merciful, perhaps even outright forgiveness. He was green at politics. The stormlords behind him weren't. Lords Tarth and Swann were in his ear about having the Targaryen prince exiled far away, in the hopes that they could stake a Baratheon claim for a united realm someday.

Personally, he favored exile. Jon deserved that, at least. He had done what he and Varys had failed to do. Varys paid for it with his life. Tyrion got a kingdom. Exile was decidedly in between. An idle thought struck him as he looked at Grey Worm. Yes, perhaps it could work...

He looked at Sansa Stark. This proposal would benefit her the most. Jon taking the black meant he would forswear all his claims and titles. She was talented in politics, no doubt, and an excellent schemer. She learned at the school of Littlefinger and Cersei, but they were Southern schemers. How long would a Southern schemer last on an icy throne in the North? Perhaps that was why she had the Riverlands sworn to her - the Tullys would rally behind the spitting image of Catelyn Stark, and the Vale might be counted on in case the North decided they had enough of a Southern queen who pretended to be a Northerner. The son of Lyanna Stark was a Targaryen, true enough, but he had saved the North from the Dead. How long before the Northern Lords decided they wanted him back?

But the Northmen would not take a Night's Watch member from his vows. Death had solved that for Jon Snow once; it would not do so again.

 _At least, I hope_ , Tyrion thought.

Yara Greyjoy stood up first. "I was sworn to the dragon queen. All I learned in her service is that dragons bring death. He killed her. I say we hang him and be done with it. I've had enough of Targaryens."

Murmurs went around the council until Arya Stark stepped forward. Tyrion noticed the flare in Sansa's eyes when she did - Arya was not going to be under the Queen in the North's thumb, and the thought brought a little smile to his face.

"If you speak of killing my brother ever again, squid, House Greyjoy's name in history books will be put next to House Frey," the little she-wolf snarled. Tyrion saw Jon smile a little at that.

"My fellow monarchs," Tyrion interrupted, hoping to get his proposal in before war broke out between the North and the Iron Islands, "perhaps there is an alternate solution. If you recall, the Night's Watch was entirely destroyed during the Great War. You may ask what need we have of that ancient institution now that the White Walkers are gone, but I ask - do we really know what happened to all the White Walkers? Is there any guarantee, seeing what we all have seen, that the realms are safe now and forevermore? The Wall has not collapsed completely. A new castle can be built by Eastwatch, where the White Walkers broke it. A new Night's Watch can guard the realms against any threats that may come from beyond. And, if nothing else, we will have somewhere to send troublesome prisoners without reverting to the barbaric need to kill."

Gendry was the first to jump on that. "Aye. I agree with what Tyr- King Tyrion," he corrected himself, "is saying. It would be merciful. Many of us fought alongside Jon. He's a good man. Let him take the black again. He can do his penance there."

Yara Greyjoy was having none of it. "You got your name because of Queen Daenerys, bastard," she hissed. "How could you not want death for her murderer?"

To his credit, the new Storm King seemed nonplussed. Tyrion guessed he had been called bastard enough that it no longer mattered. "Daenerys Targaryen said some words. Jon Snow" - he pointed at the man in chains - "went North with me to capture a wight. He led the men. He gave them hope. I considered him a brother-in-arms. And he didn't burn down an entire city that had just surrendered. Let him take the black."

 _Spoken like a true King, Gendry. Are these your words, or do Tarth and Swann speak with your lips?_ Though if Gendry could keep this up, he would be a fearsome Stag indeed.

Yohn Royce leaned towards Robyn Arryn and whispered something, and the boy nodded back at his advisor. Standing, he spoke - his voice still light and boyish, but a far cry from the wild and unstable child that had been suckling at his mother's teat not a few years ago. "My advisor agrees with the Storm King, as Lord Royce fought next to Aemon Targaryen in the war against the dead. Aemon Targaryen helped save the realm. He should be allowed his life and the black."

"Perhaps we should put it to a vote. Each monarch present gets one, and if they so wish, they may state some words as to why they are voting such. A simple majority carries either way. I shall begin. I vote that Aemon Targaryen take the Black and live out the rest of his days serving Westeros at the Night's Watch."

"Aye. I've said my piece. It is the will of the Stormlands that Aemon Targaryen serves Westeros at the Night's Watch." Gendry added.

Yara Greyjoy spat on the floor. "Nay. The Iron Islands would see this fucker hang. This vote is a farce. Between the Imp and the bastard, the boy, and the sister, Snow gets to escape judgment and live at the Wall."

Manfrey Martell stood up. "Dorne had been loyal to the Targaryens for many years. It was our blood mixed with theirs that should have sat on the Iron Throne. Elia's children were the rightful heirs. This 'Targaryen' is but a false dragon, a wolf in scales. Dorne would see him hang." _Easy words for him to say. The North is on the opposite end of the country, but still, you may have made an enemy with long memories in Sansa Stark and the North, you fool._ He wondered what Arianne Martell's game was here. She still had an incredibly pleased look on her face.

Two for, two against. But Tyrion knew Greyjoy was right. They had four unless Sansa somehow did the unthinkable and voted to kill her own cousin-brother.

Hightower voted nay next. Oldtown was the next most powerful city in Westeros. Perhaps Hightower harbored much grander ambitions than his skill or his ability allowed. Arryn voted for the Wall.

Sansa Stark spoke up last. "Targaryen he may be, but Jon was raised as my brother. Our brother," she stated, looking at her siblings. Arya nodded in confirmation. "Jon saved the North. We owe him a debt. He avenged me for the wrongs done by the Boltons to our family. And even without all that, he is my family. I vote that Aemon Targaryen live out the rest of his days at the Wall."

Tyrion let out a breath. It was over when Arryn and Baratheon threw in behind him, since Sansa's support was almost a given. But then a cold feeling crept into his heart when a heavily accented voice said. "Nay."

Everyone present turned to look at Grey Worm. Arya Stark had murder in her eyes.

"Who decided the eunuch gets a vote?" muttered Yohn Royce. But Tyrion knew that Grey Worm had something more powerful than a vote. He had soldiers who would listen to him. And he had custody of Jon Snow, although Arya Stark looked liable to stab out his eyes and slit his throat if he attempted to attack Jon Snow.

"I represent Queen Daenerys," Grey Worm said in his slow speech. "Snow kills the Queen. The Dragon Queen. She would want him dead."

"Grey Worm... Daenerys Targaryen doesn't want anything anymore. She's dead," Tyrion pointed out in what he hoped was a gentle tone.

"Then I want him dead. But he kills the queen. He should hang."

"Like hell he will," snarled Arya Stark.

To their surprise, for the first time, Jon spoke.

"Your Graces... it seems the vote is deadlocked. I am but a prisoner now," he said, letting out a hoarse laugh, rattling the chains attached to his hands. "But I have a proposal you may like to hear to break the tie. Trial by combat. I will represent myself. The Nays may appoint anyone here present to fight for them, if they have the balls. Perhaps you, Yara Greyjoy."

Yara glared at him, but looked away. Tyrion smirked. The Kraken was afraid of the Dragon, still. Yara might be a good fighter, but she would not last long against Jon. He gazed around at the assembled attendees. The only one he would even entertain the notion of wagering on against Snow here was Bronn, but Bronn was now sworn to Edmure Tully, who was sworn to Sansa. His days of volunteering as a stand-in for trial by combats were over.

"I will," announced Grey Worm.

* * *

The two men circled each other. Grey Worm had on his Unsullied armor, with a spear and shield. Snow had nothing but a tunic, breeches, and Longclaw.

Tyrion knew this fight was over before it began. Grey Worm was an excellent soldier. What was that next to the Prince who was Promised?

"How could you kill her, Snow?" Grey Worm hissed at Jon. He spat at the man's feet. "You said you loved her."

"Nothing you could say would haunt me more than what I've already done, Grey Worm. Killing Dany was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Do not call her that! She is queen. You do not get to say her name."

"But killing you? I've wanted to kill you since I saw you gutting prisoners in the city." Jon glowered at the man. "You don't do anything you're not commanded to do. That's why you didn't kill me after. There was no one to give the order."

Jon lunged first, a feint to his left to draw Grey Worm's spear. The man was disciplined and didn't fall for it. Instead, he redirected his spear to where Snow would be after the step-back, but Jon foresaw it and spun out of the way, along the length of the spear, drawing in close where the length would give Grey Worm no advantage. He swung Longclaw down on him, but the man deflected the blow with his shield and kicked at Jon, forcing him back. Again, they were distant, and again, Grey Worm's spear held him at bay.

"I wonder what Missandei would have thought when Dany burned down the city," Jon said. Grey Worm's eyes widened at that. "You think she would have approved, Grey? I don't."

The Unsullied snarled at Jon, but Tyrion saw through the ploy. _Clever. And truthful. I wonder indeed what Missandei would have thought of all the charred corpses of babes and mothers in the street._

"I bet she would have realized she picked the wrong Queen. Missandei was smart, Grey. She had a brain. She could think for herself and ask questions. She could have said something to Daenerys. But not you. You're just a tool. Pity that the wrong friend lived."

Grey took the bait and it was over. He lunged - too far, too angry, too unbalanced. Jon dodged it easily and Longclaw separated the Unsullied man's lower leg from his body, below the knee.

But Jon wasn't done there. Two more swings and Grey Worm's hands were chopped off. He dragged the bleeding, nearly dead man by the nape of his chest plate in front of the council, and glared down at Greyjoy, Martell, and Hightower.

"You are all fools," he snarled. He threw Grey Worm to the ground. Tyrion winced at that, though the Unsullied man had barely made any noise. Tyrion turned his attention to Jon, who simply glowered at Grey Worm.

"Words," he hissed.

Grey Worm said nothing.

"For the crimes of murder, abuse of prisoners, and complicity in the destruction of King's Landing, I, Aemon Targaryen, sentence you to die." He looked at his Stark sibling-cousins.

Arya Stark stepped forward and nodded, and Tyrion could have sworn he saw nothing but pride in her eyes. "Our way is the old way," she shouted.

Jon swung the sword and Grey Worm was no more.

* * *

When it was over, Tyrion was first to have words with the now unchained Jon Snow. The two men stood at a distance before Tyrion drew closer and extended a hand to Jon. Jon grasped it firmly.

"Well, I can't say the irony of this all was lost on either of us, Aemon Targaryen," Tyrion remarked softly.

Jon graced him with a half-smirk. "No, Your Grace." Tyrion handwaved that away.

"Between us, we'll remain a bastard and an imp. Even if you aren't one, Jon." Tyrion paused for a moment and then smiled. "Can you promise that you won't somehow appear with three dragons to retake the realm?"

That earned a rare laugh from the hard-faced Northman, though it was a bitter one. "I've fought enough wars, Tyrion. I've lost enough because of this damn city and that damn throne. I'm done with you lot, and I'll be bloody thankful for it. Haven't been back to Castle Black in a while."

"Oh, come now, Snow. You and I both know there is no Wall now, no Night's Watch. What would they have to watch out for? What use is a shield to guard the realms of men if there is nothing to guard them against?"

"Aye, true enough. I won't go to the Wall. I'm going beyond," Jon said.

"The Free Folk. I suppose it's appropriate, in a way. Men named Targaryen should not kneel. Will you be King Beyond the Wall, like Mance Rayder?" Tyrion remarked. 

"No. Mance became king because the Free Folk were desperate. They'll know peace now, and I never cared to lord over people. I'll leave that for the likes of you all here today." Tyrion didn't miss the way his gaze lingered bitterly at Yara Greyjoy and the Martells, who were conversing.

"No indeed. For what it's worth... I think Varys was right. You would have done the job well enough. I suppose the last Targaryen's coin landed the right way up."

"I suspect this might be the last time we see each other, Lannister," Jon said, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. Perhaps one day I'll feel the need to take a piss over the edge of the Wall, for old time's sake. I'll send a raven - we can meet at Castle Black. Better we meet in the North; I fear the implications if you ever come riding South again. I suppose I'll see you in black, next we meet."

Jon cast a weary look around him. "I've had enough of the South for two lifetimes," he said. Tyrion suddenly felt an inkling of the weight his friend had borne for the last few years, and it was heavy. The idea of running away, casting it all off - he could see the attraction to a man like Jon. He had known it before, but it again struck him then that he truly was the one who should have ruled, reluctant as he was. This was a man who would never be a tyrant, who would be just. A fair dragon, not a mad one, the promise that was Rhaegar Targaryen, fulfilled. "As for black," Jon finished, "well... it was always my color."

Those words rang true in more ways than one now. For all their sakes, Tyrion hoped that he did not mean the black of House Targaryen, for if he ever saw his friend again in the black of the Dragon, he would see that terrifying Aemon Targaryen he saw in the battle circle.

They said their goodbyes, and then Tyrion stood at a distance, watching Jon exchange his goodbyes with Sam (who gave him a raven, to exchange correspondence) and his siblings. He almost turned his attention away, until his ears caught Bran Stark's last words to Jon Snow, and a most horrid shiver traveled down his spine upon hearing them.


	2. Prologue II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys witnesses a foul rebirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it’s weird to have two prologue chapters, but it felt weirder to combine events happening across the world. This is somewhat-ish concurrent with Prologue I, chronologically. However long it took for Drogon to fly across the Narrow Sea to Asshai, and however long it took the council to convene in KL, probably a similar-ish time. I'll try to avoid D&D-like warp speed, or quantum Greyjoys appearing on the wrong side of Westeros in like 2 days, but I won't be crazy specific. Just vague enough for some realism and for your imagination to fill in the rest.

**Prologue II**

**Rhaenys - I**

Rhaenys Targaryen stared at the pyre. Her ears tuned out the grunted, muffled screams of the sacrifices as they were piled onto it.

This was wrong.

Next to her, her brother paced. He couldn’t wait. For him, the moments were too slow because of the anticipation of the result. For her, the moments were too fast, because she dreaded what would come.

Finally, the Red Priests finished loading the sacrifices onto the pyre. A wooden ramp was built to the center, a long stake that held together the entire, multi-tiered structure they had built atop the Black Spire, the tallest tower in all Asshai-by-the-Shadow. It was the dark of night, but dawn was around the corner - not that the days were particularly bright here, either. Below, the river Ash wound through the city, its foul waters phosphorescent in the night. They climbed up the ramp, carrying a body under a silver shroud.

Rhaenys and Aegon had both gotten to take look at her in the flesh. She was rotting, decaying, her former beauty turning into dead filth. If – when – she came back, Rhaenys wondered if her flesh would still be decomposed.

She didn’t know if she preferred the return of a corpse or of someone whole. Whatever came back on the outside, she knew the inside would be empty. Nothing that died for that long should ever come back. Dead things should stay dead. Daenerys Targaryen knew that as well as anyone – she was the Princess that was Promised, after all.

Two priests trailed after the pallbearers, carrying two petrified rocks. Or, at least, anyone not named Targaryen would have thought they were rocks, but Rhaenys and Aegon knew better. The wanderers in the Shadow found these dragon eggs and brought them back to the Black Spire. The larger of the two was orange, with white flecks. The other was cream and red.

Now, they would be born. The fire-baked blood of a hundred screaming victims would guarantee it. Rhaenys felt bile surge upwards into her mouth. Aegon might find this justified. To her, this was wrong, even if a dragon - _her own dragon -_ was the outcome.

Above, a black dragon with a red spine circled, screeching for the return of his mother.

“Aegon,” she whispered. “You can’t think this will work.”

Her silver-haired brother, the picture of Old Valyria, did not quit his pacing. “I know it will. And when it does, we will return home, dear sister. We will have fire and blood and what was stolen from us.” Rhaenys glared at him, born with the features of Targaryens and apparently all their bravado and stupidity. She had always been a little jealous that she was almost all Martell, and seemingly in temperament too.

“We didn’t trust her before. The Asshai’i Red Priests kept us hidden from Daenerys for a reason. Tell me why we aren’t afraid she’ll do what we thought she would if she comes back.”

Aegon paused his pacing now and looked at her with impatience. “Rhae, I told you. Daenerys has no army anymore. The Priests know she doesn’t have the dragons for it. She needs us now. She’ll have to share.”

Rhaenys angrily pointed above. “You think she won’t just command her dragon to burn us all alive? Isn’t that what we were afraid of all those years in Essos? Isn’t that why we came to Asshai?”

“No,” Aegon grunted. “She was too powerful then. She has nothing now. No matter how much rage she comes back with, she’ll still need support. She’ll need true dragons.”

"So that's it?" Rhaenys scoffed. "You'll be Aegon the Conqueror, and she and I, your Visenya and Rhaenys?"

"Well, you can't deny you're named appropriately," Aegon replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. Rhaenys shook her head.

_Fool. She is Aegon. You and I will be lucky to be anything if this works._

The High Priest Benerro had arrived from Volantis not a fortnight ago, claiming that he was needed here. Asshai was a stronghold of the Lord of Light – something that made Rhaenys scoff, given how enveloped in darkness the city was – but the High Priest had always resided in Volantis. They had wondered why he had come, but he simply claimed that it was the Lord’s will, as revealed to him in the fire.

The visions that came with Benerro didn’t reveal much – the High Priest spoke of a white wolf in a ruined keep, as snow dropped everywhere, and a bloodied dagger, and dragon fire. That meant nothing to them. They had been insulated and isolated from the world in the Black Spire. Rhaenys hated it, not truly knowing what went on outside in the world, other than the little trickle fed to them by the Red Priests, but supporters had spirited them away for their safety as soon as Daenerys Targaryen’s campaign gained traction, and the Mother of Dragons made it clear that she was the Breaker of Chains, that she was a benevolent Aegon the Conqueror reborn in a woman’s body.

That wasn't the reputation of a woman who shared power, and they had known it. Aegon was a threat to her claim, and Daenerys Targaryen would have had no interest in being her brother's queen consort, nor did Aegon desire to be a king consort. It wouldn't have worked.

A day ago, Drogon had arrived clutching Daenerys’ decomposing body, and immediately, the Red Priests had set about building a pyre for her resurrection. Rhaenys wanted to point out that fire and blood had completely leveled everything that had been stolen from them in the first place. She wanted to say that for all the fire and blood Daenerys had brought to Westeros, she was now dead, and a ceremony was being performed to bring her back. What good had fire and blood done Daenerys? How could she even be a Princess who was Promised if she was dead?

She knew it, even if Aegon didn’t. Men and women who stared at fires too long would find whatever answer they wanted in the flames. There was no Lord gifting answers to His chosen, just the desires of covetous people reflected in the embers and in their own eyes.

The Priests prepared the pyre - Daenerys' body in the middle, clutching two dragon eggs, and a hundred struggling men, women, and children, bound and gagged atop the tiers of the wooden stack. The remaining servants of the Lord of Light left the pyre, and all formed a circle around it. The Fiery Hand - a detachment of a hundred, come with Benerro as an honor guard, began to beat their spears into the floor of the Black Spire's roof as all around them, the chant went up.

**Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon.**

**Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon.**

**Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.**

_**We ask the Lord to shine His Light, and lead a soul out of Darkness.** _

_**We beg the Lord to share His Fire, and light a candle that has gone out.** _

_**From Darkness, Light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.** _

And on, and on, and on they chanted, as Benerro took a torch and lit the pyre alight.

Rhaenys watched in horror as the flames licked up, slowly at first, but then faster, stronger, and higher, jumping from kindling to kindling, as the muffled grunts and desperate writhing of the sacrifices grew more and more panicked. Their gagged screams grew louder as they began to burn, and so did the chanting of the Red Priests.

She turned to her brother. "Egg, this is wrong," she whispered hoarsely.

Aegon said nothing, his eyes fixed on the pyre.

**Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon.**

**Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon.**

**Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.**

_**We ask the Lord to shine His Light, and lead a soul out of Darkness.** _

_**We beg the Lord to share His Fire, and light a candle that has gone out.** _

_**From Darkness, Light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.** _

Rhaenys did not believe, but for a moment, she felt the kind of fear that was akin to belief. The flames that licked upwards were no longer red and orange but were now turning a sickly-poison shade of green.

**Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon.**

**Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon.**

**Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.**

_**We ask the Lord to shine His Light, and lead a soul out of Darkness.** _

_**We beg the Lord to share His Fire, and light a candle that has gone out.** _

_**From Darkness, Light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.** _

Drogon let out a mighty roar from above, and the priests' chanting grew louder until it was the only noise Rhaenys heard, drowning out even the rush of her own blood and the thumping beat of her own heart. Her eyes darted to Aegon once more, and to her dismay, she found not the same revulsion that was surely etched onto her face, but a serene smile.

A loud, unholy shriek split the night, and immediately the Fire Priests ceased to chant. The sacrifices were long since dead, their flesh burning and charred, filling the air with a foul stench and smoke. Rhaenys heard a loud cracking noise, and then another, and... _three shrieks_. 

Three dragons - infants, babes, but dragons, crawled out of the pyre, croaking and stumbling along on their hind legs, using their wing claws for stability. Rhaenys gasped when she saw them, and Aegon took a few steps forward.

Her eye was immediately caught by the one that was ochre and orange, with green eyes, and she knew it was hers. The other that she saw was red and black, with orange eyes, and she knew it was Aegon's.

But it was the third that struck her mute, for it was white as snow, and its eyes were red as blood, and Rhaenys knew that it was the twin and egg-mate of the one that was hers.

Drogon bellowed again, and now a Rhaenys could make out a distinctly human voice. The sun of dawn began to creep into the sky, though it remained blotted out by the shadow and the darkness of Asshai - only a faint glimmer and shape through the shadows could be seen. Then, she stepped out of the green flames, naked as the day she was born, her silver hair shorn down to shoulder length, her skin unblemished and without rot, save for the singular stab wound where her heart should be.

For a moment, Rhaenys' vision faltered, and she could have sworn that it was not a young woman, but a decrepit, wasting old man that came out of the fire, his silver hair falling below his waist, his fingernails like long talons or claws, his beard matted and filthy. He smiled a cruel smile, and Rhaenys' heart nearly stopped beating then and there. It was a face from her nightmares.

She never heard the words, but she still remembered the voice. And she had been told how that man had taken one look at her and said, "she smells Dornish."

But she blinked and the vision of Aerys Targaryen was no more, and it was again Daenerys who stood before her.

Rhaenys could have convinced herself it was a trick of the light, the heat of the green flames, or the gravity of the sight, but for the first words that she heard come out of her aunt's mouth. And for as long as she lived, Rhaenys would never forget the words the reborn Daenerys Targaryen.

_"Burn them all."_

Lost in her horror, Rhaenys almost didn't hear the second scream that Daenerys let out. It was a name, a name that meant nothing to her, but clearly meant something to Daenerys.

_"Jon Snow."_

* * *

Around the world, in the dead of night, Jon Snow woke with a start in an inn at the crossroads, on his way North to beyond the Wall, his nightmares dark and full of silver-haired terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know, there's probably no book precedence for two dragons in one egg... but oh well. Pretty sure a white dragon with blood-red eyes is badass enough to balance it out.


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's trip North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'll probably be the last chapter for a little bit, but no worries, I'm still working on it.  
> Got a big A:TLA longfic I've been kind of neglecting in the meantime. 
> 
> I think this fic is going to be a slooooow burn. Strap in for the long haul, amigos.

**Jon – I**

_A fortnight after the Great Council of 305 A.C._

Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes, chasing away dreams of green flames and dragons. He shuddered and suppressed the vision. It was only a nightmare.

 _You still have wars to fight, Jon._ Bran’s last words rattled around in his head. He ignored it and shoved it aside. He was going far away.

Dawn had barely broken through the stillness of the night, but there was some light outside, the world more indigo than black. Jon snuffed out the candle in his room and washed his face with the water in the basin. It did not take him long to get ready: a simple tunic, breeches, boots, and his boiled leather surcoat over it, with a belt for Longclaw. He tied his hair back and left his room.

Downstairs, the innkeep was already awake, baking the first bread of the morning. Jon tipped her a coin for some bread and cheese and sat on a stool. The innkeep was a woman of middle age, and years had worn lines and stories into her face. She eyed Jon with a strange look.

“You’re that Northern King, ‘ain’t you?” she grumbled, after a moment.

“No. I’m just a man headed home,” Jon said. It felt a lie. Where was home?

“You look like him. I seen him, ridin’ on that fancy ‘orse a’ his, towards the capital, with his big army behind him. They say he kilt the Dragon Queen.”

Jon stared at the innkeep, who stared back at him.

“He did. Now there are seven kings and queens.”

The innkeep gave a sigh. “There was five kings durin’ the war, there was, and look at ‘ow bad it got. Seven? Rivers’ll run red with blood.”

“Aye. The Crownlands are going to see war,” Jon said. “I’ve seen enough of it. I’m leaving.”

“You a soldier?”

Jon wanted to laugh. Aye, that he was. He’d been a soldier all his life, and then he’d died. And they’d brought him back, just for him to be a soldier again.

* * *

_“I did what I thought was right. And I got murdered for it. And now I’m back. Why?” Jon gasped as if learning how to breathe again._ _  
  
Davos’ grandfatherly face twisted into a grimace. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll never know. What does it matter? You go on. You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of the shit as you can.”  
  
“I don’t know how to do that. I thought I did, but...I failed.”  
  
“Good. Now go fail again.”_

* * *

The only prophecies that had come true were the ones spoken to him by men who’d been brutally honest with him – Davos, who’d been his friend, and Alliser Thorne, who’d been his enemy. Both knew there was no rest for Jon.

“Aye. I fought. I fought enough. I’m done fighting,” Jon muttered, in between bites of his bread and cheese.

“Can’t say I blame ‘ya. Better you go back North than stay ‘ere an’ turn brigand.”

“You’ve had problems?”

The innkeep shrugged. “Not yet, but it’ll come. When the great lords an’ ladies fight, it’s us little folk who die.”

Jon finished his meal and washed it down with a tankard of weak ale. He slid another coin to the innkeep, who took it and gave him a nod. “Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise,” he grunted to the innkeeper. “I did, and all I got for it was a burned city and thousands of charred corpses.” He stood up and tightened his belt, sweeping out of the inn towards the stable and his horse, but the innkeep’s voice gave him pause.

“I ‘eard a rumor the Northern King was Rhaegar’s son. A Northern dragon. The rightful ‘eir to the throne, they say. And I know you’re ‘im, I know. I seen you before. Why’re you leaving? Gods’ truth.”

He turned back around and gave the innkeep a grimacing smile. Her hands were balled into fists, resting on her hips, and her face was hard, expectant of an answer.

“Because I’m done fighting their battles.”

“Who’s they?”

But Jon didn’t turn back to answer this time.

* * *

_A moon after the Great Council of 305 A.C._

Jon buried Longclaw through the gap of the highwayman’s brigandine and kicked him in the belly, sending him flying backward. Blood erupted from his wound, spraying over the worn dirt road.

His compatriots glanced at each other, a nervous shiftiness in their eyes. The children behind Jon screamed as their mother tearfully tried to hush them. Their father lay dead on the ground, blood pooling from where the brigands had caved in his skull with a mace.

“The rest of you want to try your luck?” Jon grunted.

The three remaining robbers attacked at once, hoping to overtake Jon at once. Their hope was unfounded. The first one to get close to Jon got Longclaw thrust into the throat; the second had only drawn half as close when Jon pulled it out with a _squelch_ and faced him. The two remaining enemies didn’t rush in like the first. One stayed in front while the other circled around.

He heard the footsteps of the man behind him erupt into a run, so he spun out of the way and grabbed him by the throat, shoving Longclaw through his back and out his front. He pulled the sword out and threw the man towards the last remaining robber, knocking him down. Jon strode over to the fallen robber, who was trying to get the corpse of his companion off. He was not quick enough.

Jon peered down at the man. He was just a boy, even younger than Jon, maybe only having seen seventeen or eighteen namedays. He pled for his life. He had a mother in Lannisport, three sisters, and a younger brother. His father had died in the war.

Jon ended his begging with a swift stroke of Longclaw.

He grabbed the man’s waterskin and washed off his sword with a rag, before putting it back in the scabbard. The woman behind him whimpered as she sheltered her children from Jon.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, barely glancing at her.

The woman didn’t cease her trembling.

“You’d best get going. There’s a town down the road – take a left at the fork. You can find shelter there.”

“We… we’ve got nowhere to go,” the woman said, her voice tearful. “Me husband dead… he was a good man, a tanner, respectable. What’ll me and the babes do without ‘im?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, with a dispassionate shrug. “I truly don’t.”

“Please, ser, we need your help. We… we can come along with you. We won’t be no trouble. Maybe I can…” she looked at Jon, once over, and licked her lips. “You seem lonely, that is-“

Jon held up a hand. “I don’t need payment of that kind or any kind. And I’m not a knight. If you want to follow, you can, but I’m not responsible for you. I’m headed North. I won’t be going anywhere else. If you choose to follow me, you can for as long as you wish. I don’t know what there will be for you when you get there. My sister…” Jon paused. “My family lives at Winterfell. I’ll pass through. You can stay there if you like.”

The woman glanced at her husband’s body one last time, choking back a sob. “Aye. Good enough for me.”

* * *

_Three moons after the Great Council of 305 A.C._

Jon sighed, looking back behind him. Little had he known what his offer to that woman would have snowballed into.

A long train of people – refugees, men and women, families and children, trailed behind him, following him like some promised savior to the North. When more people had come along, seeking his protection, Jon had told them he was going North, Beyond the Wall, and he was going to stay there. They were welcome to follow if they didn’t slow him down, and they could stay in the North if the North would have them.

But now Jon knew that most of these people wouldn’t stop in the North. They had come to believe in him, trust him, and they were following him Beyond the Wall, too.

Ahead of him was a bog, a bog he knew most of these people had no chance of traversing without the help of the short-statured man, older – around Eddard Stark’s age, Jon might have guessed - smiling at him, with a pretty girl with dark curls by his side. Jon’s scouts had spied them from a distance, and the Crannogman lord had requested an audience with 'Aemon Targaryen, First of his Name.'

“Lord Reed.”

“Your Grace,” the man responded with a bow. “My daughter, Meera. She was a companion to your cousin, Bran Stark.”

“A pleasure, my lady.” Jon dipped his head towards Meera. He’d been told the tales – without her, Bran would surely be dead. “Don’t let Sansa hear you say that, my lord," he said to Reed. "She might have you sent to the Watch.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it is not the title of King in the North I refer to you with, but the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

Jon sighed. “Lord Reed, the Iron Throne is gone. The Realm is no more.”

“Indeed, but the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men are still around, aren’t they? The title wasn’t ‘King of the Iron Throne’, or ‘King of the Seven Kingdoms,’ Your Grace.”

Jon bristled every time the man called him that, but he needed his help if he was going to get all these people across the bloody bog. The Crannogmen were the best ones suited for it.

“My lord, I seem to require your assistance in getting my people through the Neck and past Moat Cailin safely. The Crannogmen know the land here better than anyone, and they say your home moves.”

“Of course, your Grace. I would be happy to help. My scouts have been tracking your movements since you passed the Twins, and we’ve made preparations for your passage.”

Jon’s mouth hardened into a grimace. ‘Lord’ Bronn of the new house Blackwater had allowed him and the people passage, but Jon knew giving that man the Twins was a move many would come to regret. Bronn was not as bad as a Frey, but a man like that would no doubt spawn a similar sort of house.

“Jon…” the familiarity with which Howland Reed referred to him shook him out of his thoughts. “If you’d like, I would tell you about your mother. I counted her among my friends.”

Jon gazed at the short man with his grey eyes and a kind smile. “I’d like that. Will you and Lady Meera accompany me through?”

“We shall, until Greywater Watch. From there, my men will take you past Moat Cailin.”

“Is the Moat guarded?”

“No, Your Grace. Queen Sansa has sent all fighting men home for the winter, but… it is not a harsh winter. Ravens have come from the edges of the North. They say things are beginning to grow beyond the Wall. I believe that your victory in the Great War has changed things.”

“Making the winter less harsh?” Jon scoffed. “The White Walkers bring the cold, but they are not the cold.”

Howland shrugged. “Who can say how the magic of the White Walkers affected the winter in the North, Your Grace? My son, Jojen, was a greenseer. He used to say that the lands beyond the wall were once green. No one would mistake them for fertile Reachlands, but things grew and people lived.”

Jon called his makeshift lieutenants and gave them orders to form the refugees into their groups and assign each a Crannogman scout. As the horde began to move, Jon took the lead with the Reeds as his personal guides.

“What is the situation in my sister’s kingdom?” Jon said.

“You’ve traveled through the former Crownlands, have you not, Your Grace?”

“I have. All I know is that the Unsullied left on some ships sailing flags of Volantis and of the Lord of Light. But I’ve not kept count of the lords and kings of Westeros.”

“The Stormlanders, some of the border Reach Lords, and the Riverlanders are all fighting in the crownlands. The monarchs are attempting to consolidate their authority, but each border lord sees an opportunity to expand their lands. I believe that the Riverlanders are fighting on the behest of the Queen.”

Jon grunted. “She can’t ask the Northern lords to spend any more time in the South, not with winter here. So instead she relies on the Tullys to wage more war.” He shook his head. “When will the bloody fighting end?”

Lord Reed gave him a sad smile. “Not as long as there are people. Our new Queen harbors southern ambitions, I fear.”

“Fuck ambition. There’s been enough war. Now there needs to be peace.”

“How can there be peace with seven kingdoms? They will always be at each other’s throats, all fighting over this land, or that slight. The realm needed a king.”

Jon felt Howland’s eyes on him, but he looked ahead, surveying the swamp as if there was something of interest there. “Not me, Lord Reed.”

“You didn’t want it?”

“I never lusted after power. I just wanted to do the right bloody thing.”

 _You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of the shit as you can._ _  
  
I don’t know how to do that. I thought I did, but...I failed.  
  
Good. Now go fail again._

Howland Reed was quiet for a while. “You remind me of Lyanna. She never wanted to be put in the role that everyone had already planned out for her. She wanted to choose. And she chose, and she chose, and then she chose someone that got her killed.”

Jon whipped his head around to glower at the man.

“You mistake me, Your Grace. Rhaegar Targaryen was not an evil man, nor was he a raper or murderer. He might have made one of the best kings this realm had seen. But Lyanna chose love over duty, and so did Rhaegar. It gave the realm you, but it gave many people death, too. Men like Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower… men like your father. Your mother was a free spirit, a true wolf, like your uncle Brandon, and it hurt them in the end. Your uncle Ned was… less wild. And Benjen was always a sweet boy, putting family over anyone else. He loved Lyanna, worshipped her, would do anything for her.”

“Did Uncle Benjen know?” Jon said, a stone lodging in his throat.

“I think he may have suspected. Benjen was closest to Lyanna. I think he knew as soon as he saw you as a babe. But it was not his place to tell you.”

“No. It was Eddard Stark’s. And he let me go to the Wall without knowing who I was. What I was.”

Reed nodded. “I think he ought to have told you, Jon. Ned and I were the only ones who knew. I don’t know why he would have let you go.”

“Because then he could fulfill his promise to my mother without having danger to his family under his roof.”

“You were his family, Jon. He loved you.”

“Aye, but I was a burden he was glad to be rid of nonetheless,” Jon said darkly. “The Starks used me for their purposes and then threw me aside. They got their kingdom and made sure no dragon sat on the southern throne.” He felt an inexplicable well of bitterness rise up inside him. “I became a kinslayer."

“You could have taken the throne,” Howland said. "You could have held the realm together."

“I owe the realm _nothing._ I gave them my life the first time, and my honor the second, when I became a kinslayer." Jon spat. "I didn’t want to be thrown aside like a broken sword. I wanted to go home and live in peace.”

“Is beyond the Wall not your home? Is it not where you would find peace?”

Jon had to admit the man was right, but something still nagged at him. “Aye, but I wanted to go there of my own volition. Not because Sansa wanted me to take the black so that I would be a claimless bastard again."

They did not speak for a while, and to his surprise, it was Meera Reed who broke the silence after several hours.

"Your Grace..."

"Call me Jon, please," he interjected gruffly.

"Jon. I've heard that your brother... your cousin, Bran... I've heard he's getting better."

Jon turned back on his horse to look at her. "What do you mean?"

She stammered at first, trying to find the right words. "You do know of your brother's..."

"Gift of sight? Yes. He calls himself the Three-Eyed Raven, whatever that is..."

"It's beginning to fade."

" _What?"_

"He sends ravens sometimes. Bran says he can still see, but his powers are no longer as strong. He used to be able to change events, but he can't, not anymore, and... he sounds more like himself. Like the boy I knew before he became the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Why?"

"Who can say? Bran thinks it has to do with the defeat of the White Walkers. The powers of the Three-Eyed Raven come from the magic of the Old Gods. Perhaps the Old Gods see no need for it now that the great enemy has been defeated."

Jon shifted in his saddle, a little discomfited, but also a little glad. He loved Bran, but there were times where he would look into his cousin-brother's eyes and see nothing. Just an empty husk. If Bran was returning to himself, that was a welcome thing. He could trust Bran. Whatever Old God sat inside the husk of his body before, that he didn't trust.

His brother's last words to him bounced inside his skull without end. _You still have wars to fight, Jon._ Perhaps Lady Meera's news was a good thing. Perhaps Bran's sight was no longer as true as before. 

"Jon, I'd be very grateful if you could pass along a message to Bran for me, if you pass by Winterfell."

"I'll be taking the Kingsroad to the Wall. What message?"

Lady Meera blushed, and Jon smiled with realization - the first smile he'd had in moons. "Could you tell him that he'd be welcome here at Greywater Watch, anytime?"

Jon's smile grew wider. "Aye, my lady. I can do that." Much of the rest of their trip passed in silence, but he was grateful to the Lady Meera Reed and her affections for Bran Stark, for they lit a flicker of warmth inside him.

* * *

_Four moons after the Great Council of 305 A.C._

The trip past the Neck had been largely uneventful for him and his followers, but the North was abuzz about the former king and the ten thousand-strong refugees that now marched with him to head beyond the wall. It was largely women and children, but there were men too, men that Jon had managed to organize into a sort of mobile town watch that shepherded the people along, up the Kingsroad. Some of the Northern lords were kind enough to send supplies - Manderly among them - but others rode out of their keeps to make sure the caravan kept going. Cerwyn was the worst of these, and Jon had to restrain himself from challenging the coward to combat. 

Eventually, they were only leagues away from Winterfell. Howland Reed had been right - the winter was surprisingly not harsh, with only a thin layer of snow covering the land. But the Wintertown around Winterfell was still swelled, and Jon gave orders to those who would stay to form up in their own column.

They were greeted outside of Winterfell by a large armed party. Jon grimaced to see Sansa among them, surrounded by her Queensguard, including Brienne of Tarth. But to his happy surprise, Bran was there, too, with a contraption on his horse holding his legs in. Jon felt glad to see him and smiled when he thought of Meera Reed.

Bran came forward first, meeting Jon in the middle of the space between the Stark soldiers and the refugee caravan. They grasped hands, and Jon saw what he thought to be a real smile on his cousin-brother's face.

"You look well, Bran," he said. "And look at you, riding a horse."

"I started to tire of the chair," he said, smiling sheepishly. Jon's heart soared to see _human_ emotion run past Bran's once stoic features.

"I have a message from you. From a certain Lady Reed," Jon whispered, conspiratorially. Bran surprised him again by blushing. 

"Oh?"

"She says you're welcome anytime at Greywater Watch," Jon said with a chuckle. "I think she may even let you move there permanently."

"I'd like that. Though, I suppose Sansa would have to approve..."

Jon's gaze hardened. "Ah yes, our sister. Ever the politician." His eyes flitted towards the redhead, who sat atop her horse, gazing at him dispassionately with a silver crown atop her head. A bitter taste entered into his mouth. She couldn't even wear the crown of the Kings of Winter, choosing instead a circlet with two wolves.

"Jon," Bran said, warningly. "I know how you feel, but she will need you soon. We all will."

"How do you know, Bran? Meera said your sight wasn't as strong as before."

"No, it's not. But I can still see things. Glimpses. Lately, all I see is a green fire in the land of shadow. I see three people - two women and a man, though their faces and features are obscured to me. I don't know what it means, Jon, but I know what I said to you in the Dragonpit was true. Your wars are not over."

Jon shook his head. "They are, brother. I am done."

For a moment, that same emotionless mask flitted over Bran's face. "We shall see, I suppose." Then it was gone, before Jon was sure he'd seen it.

Sansa spurred her horse forward, flanked by soldiers and Queensguard.

"Jon," she said.

"Sansa." Jon didn't bother dipping his head to her.

"Why are you here?" she asked, and Jon suddenly realized that Sansa was _nervous._ Did she think he'd ridden here with an army to come claim her crown? To take back the North?

"To take what's mine," he said, and when the fear flitted across her face, he smiled grimly, his suspicions proved true. "Sansa, did you really think I came here to take the North from you?"

His sister said nothing, her piercing blue eyes still fixed on him.

"I'm here to take my people and go beyond the wall. I'm not here to wage wars or to stab people in the back. I leave that to you," he said bitterly. "Some of my people want to stay here in the North, if you'll have them."

"I will not," Sansa said coldly. "We do not have space or supplies for them."

"Why did you vote to let me live back there, in the Dragonpit?" he asked, suddenly. "Was it because you wanted me out of the way without having to kill me?"

"That's nonsense, Jon. You're my brother. I wanted to make sure you lived. It was the best possible option. The lone wolf dies, the pack-"

"The best bloody option was to tell them your brother was coming North with you, and damn the consequences!" Jon roared. "Family would have done better! Family would have given me a chance! You're telling me Arya wouldn't have snuck into the Unsullied camp and poisoned the lot of them? You waited until Tyrion brought up the option of taking the Black because you knew that I'd no longer be able to bother you because you were afraid that the Northern lords would never accept you as Queen while I still had a claim! You wanted the fucking crown, Sansa? I would have given it to you because you were my sister. Hang your fucking pack, Sansa. You're no wolf. The stench of Tully fish hangs over Winterfell now." Jon was filled with immense glee to see some of the Northern lords behind Sansa glance at each other with a mixture of shame and knowledge. Brienne had her hand on her sword, and some of the Queensguard had inched closer to him.

Sansa stiffened. "Lord Snow-"

"My name is _Targaryen_ _,_ " he hissed. "Call me Jon if you want, but you of all people will never call me Snow again. My people are heading beyond the Wall. I'm leaving your precious kingdom to you. If you want to stop me, stop me." His eyes flitted to Brienne. "You can let go of your sword, Lady Brienne. I have no interest in being a kinslayer twice over." 

He turned his attention to Sansa. "Goodbye, _Your Grace,_ " he said, mockingly, spitting on the ground. "Mikkel! Jory! Arndel! Form your columns. We ride North. Tell the ones who wanted to stay to rejoin the main lines. It seems that the hospitality of the North has been found wanting." With one last glare at Sansa, he wheeled away from Winterfell and back onto the Kingsroad. He didn't get far before Bran caught up with him.

They rode side by side in silence for a while, before Bran broke it.

"That was harsh."

"Bran-"

"But truthful. You spoke your mind back there." Bran stared at him for a good while. "You have a mixture of the wolf's blood and the dragon's blood. You should have been King."

Jon snorted. "Like I've said-"

"I know, you don't want it, you never have. But I know it would have been for the best, in the long run. I fear we will all come to regret it that we did not follow you. Do you blame us? For what happened?"

Jon sighed. "I don't know, Bran. Everything went wrong after we defeated the Night King. Dany was hurting. She needed me, and I was... I wasn't there."

"Was it the relation?"

Jon shook his head. "No. I... that was an excuse, an easy excuse. Why would it truly matter? Grandfather Rickard and Grandmother Lyarra were close blood too. I was struggling, Bran. I'd thought Father was my father all along. I thought he didn't tell me about my mother out of shame. I could have forgiven him for that. I didn't want to be a reminder of some mistake he made, but he wasn't my father at all, was he? I wasn't a source of shame. I was Lyanna Stark's child, her trueborn child. Rhaegar's child. I was an orphan. I had no family. My brother and sister were dead. I'd never gotten to know either of my parents. And now, all I'll ever know about them is that they cast aside duty for love and the realm burned for it. Everything that has happened from the moment my mother ran away with my father until now is because of them. I've walked a bloody fine line between love and duty my whole life, Bran. And every time I make a mistake, people I care about die. Do you know what that feels like? To think that all the horrors of the last twenty-three years have been because of my birth?"

"You aren't responsible for Lyanna and Rhaegar's failures, Jon. Children aren't born stained with the sin of their parents." Jon simply shook his head at Bran's words.

"You would have made a good king," Bran spoke softly. "I don't think the Seven Kingdoms have seen a man like you in many years, and I doubt they will again after you. Do you blame Sansa? Tyrion?"

"Tyrion was with me until the end. And by then we both knew what needed to be done. I want to hate him because he was the one to put it into words too, but he didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. He loved Dany too. Sansa... Sansa played the game to get what she wanted. She is who her circumstances have made her. I suppose I do blame her, Bran, if I'm being bloody honest."

"Thank you, Jon. You can speak your mind to me, you know. I think that's what brothers are for. And I know you said that you had no family, but that's not true. Even if you only think of us as your cousins, Jon... you'll be my brother. Robb and Rickon died thinking you a brother. I know Arya will never think of you as anything else, either."

A wave of emotion rose up like the tide into Jon's throat, and he gave Bran a nod of gratitude. "Why not you, Bran? You have the sight. A king with that power would have been strong."

Bran snorted, and the two brothers began to laugh. "What would they call me?" Bran mused. "Bran the Broken? Would they have built me a throne on wheels? Sounds like a poor version of Old Nan's tales. No, Jon, my job was to defeat the Long Night, and I did. I once told Sam I was the world's memory, but memory should not have the power to change itself. I can still remember, and the power in me can rest, now. And I would like to live as Bran Stark, not the Three-Eyed Raven."

Jon looked at him for a good minute. "I'm glad to have my little brother back."

Bran smiled at him. "I'm glad to have my older brother back, even if he is moving rather far away."

"Send a raven. Visit, perhaps. Don't be a stranger, Prince Brandon of Winterfell."

"Goodbye, brother." Bran proffered his arm, and Jon clasped it once more.

* * *

_Five moons after the Great Council of 305 A.C_

_306 A.C., the New Year_

Castle Black was a ruin, but there were now people living in and around the area. There was no Night's Watch anymore, and locals had begun to settle upwards, taking the empty fields left behind by the White Walkers, coming into the Gift and the land that was the former Night's Watch territory. Jon paid some of them a handsome sum to open the gates of Castle Black and allow them through the wall. He wondered what would await them on the other side.

Winter had ended, fast and hard. And it was a good thing because otherwise, starvation would have taken the whole continent. Food supplies were critically low, and war had devastated the land. But winter's fury was short and suddenly spring had come forth, and as Jon took his first steps onto the other side of the Wall, he was astounded to see green things grow there. 

_Lord Reed was right,_ he thought.

On the other side, he was surprised to find Tormund and Ghost waiting for him. His old friend grinned knowingly.

"Ghost knew you were coming," he said, by way of explanation.

"Did he now?" Jon dismounted and embraced his wolf, his grey eyes peering into the blood-red of Ghost's. "I've missed you, boy."

"I've missed you too," Tormund said mockingly. Jon shook his head and buried it into Ghost's fur, taking in the smell of the Direwolf, the smell of the true North.

Home. He was home.

There was grass - decent grass, enough to grow some heartier plants. The trees were no longer covered with snow, and the land was green. People spoke with astonishment, particularly the Northerners among the refugees, who had heard stories of the wintery wasteland beyond the wall. Jon smiled at the thought that none of them would ever see how bitter and cold this place once was.

Some of the southerners who came here stared at the heart trees with astonishment. Jon spoke to some of them. While he did not care much for gods anymore, he knew the Old Gods still held sway here - his gods were real. He'd seen nothing of the Seven to ever make him think they existed, and while he did not care for the faith his followers held, he knew, before long, the Old Gods would find their way into the hearts of these people. It was impossible for them not to, not while the magic of the Old Gods still existed out there.

And it felt untainted, unoppressive, for once. He could feel that the weight of the White Walkers truly was gone. Living things, animals had come back into the world, no longer hiding from the march of the Army of the Dead. 

As they made their way through the forest, they began to run into Free Folk villages. All of them greeted Jon warmly - and at every village, the refugee caravan got lighter. People made homes, found places to settle, split off as they found land they liked. A village here needed tanners and shepherds; a village there needed a blacksmith or washerwomen. A large group split off under some Free Folk who were headed to resettle Hardhome, at least a thousand. There were no true towns, no settlements of even more than a few hundred people, but the refugees found homes. At each stop, Jon told them they were no longer subjects or peasants or commonfolk, but Free Folk. 

He thought they were pleased by that.

By the time they made it to the base of the Fist of the First Men, they were astounded to find a now fertile valley, verdant and green. The last vestiges of winter were still here, but the Frostfangs were no longer snowcapped, and even the craggy mound at the top of the hill of the Fist was no longer covered in snow. Jon knew this was where he would plant his roots. 

"As good a place to start as any," Tormund remarked. There were only a thousand left of the refugees, but some Free Folk had come with them too, seeking to settle further North along the Milkwater. "This could be home." The refugees had begun to make camp, a makeshift town at the base of the Fist, 

"Aye," Jon agreed. He surveyed the land - the Milkwater was nearby, and smaller brooks split into the valley. Resources were abundant nearby. The stone ringwall around the Fist could even become a true wall one day, a wall fit for a town.

Home.


	4. Prophecies and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys learns just how deep the lie runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the events of this chapter overlap with the events of Homecoming, Jon – I. Forgive me the strange time pacing. Eventually, timelines will converge.
> 
> There is a book character I have introduced in this chapter, more as a nod than as a 1:1 port of the book character, so you'll have to forgive the OOC-ness.
> 
> Remember: we reside in the ruins of D&D-land :)

**Rhaenys – II**

_One moon after the Great Council, and a fortnight after Daenerys Targaryen's return, 305 A.C._

"I will not." Rhaenys' shoes clacked against the smooth black stone as she walked rapidly down the hallway with Aegon trailing behind.

"Rhae-"

"Egg, I won't. I just won't."

"She hates it."

"I don't care how she feels. I love both of them. Eliarron and... him."

"You can't even bring yourself to name it. It's a runt. A freak. It shouldn't have been born, anyway. It's the first time I've ever read of one egg spawning two dragons." Aegon sighed in defeat. "I know, it's not exactly logical, but you've seen how she reacted to seeing it. I don't know if it's the coloring or the eyes. It was like she saw... I don't know, a ghost."

Rhaenys chuckled. "Ghost wouldn't be a bad name. Or _**tolīmorghon** _in Valyrian."

"Then why haven't you named it?" Aegon challenged. 

"I don't know, it doesn't seem right."

Aegon rolled his eyes. "Are you waiting for his rider to come along and do it for you?"

Rhaenys said nothing. Something told her that was exactly what she was waiting for, even if she couldn't be sure that there ever would be a rider for the white dragon.

"Sister, Daenerys isn't going to stop hating it. The Priests think it's an abomination. Grey Ghost was grey-white, like the morning mist, and Meraxes, Quicksilver, and others were all silver-white... but there has never been a snow-white dragon with blood-red eyes like that."

"And what would that lot of zealot fire-worshippers know about dragons?" Rhaenys spat. "Egg, he's Eliarron's brother. I will burn Asshai to the ground before I let anything happen to **ñuha byka mēre ( _my little one_ ).**"

"Fine," Aegon sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "But keep it out of her sight. And don't let it near Drogon."

"Drogon won't harm him. Her, on the other hand..." Rhaenys trailed off bitterly.

* * *

_Two moons after the Great Council of 305 A.C._

Rhaenys tried her hardest not to fidget in her seat as she, Aegon, and Benerro waited for Daenerys to arrive. When she did, Rhaenys stiffened.

They were in a small, dark, but richly appointed room, with a large ash wooden table in front of them, carved into a painstaking recreation of Westeros. Comfortable black seats were pushed up against the table. Was Rhaenys just imagining it, or was Daenerys glaring at her? Her aunt took her seat at the head of the table, with Aegon on her right and Benerro on her left.

Rhaenys sat several seats away.

"Are we agreed then, to land in Dorne?" Aegon asked.

Daenerys _**was**_ glaring at her, Rhaenys was sure of it now. Her eyes didn't leave. Rhaenys stared back.

_Let the bitch look all she wants. She'll never touch the white dragon, not as long as I draw breath._

Rhaenys knew that agents loyal to Daenerys were combing the city looking for it, but Asshai was a large city, and mostly empty. And those few loyal to her would hide the white dragon on pain of death. Rhaenys had also seen fit to hide Eliarron with them. She couldn't be sure that Daenerys wouldn't hold her dragon hostage to find the location of the white dragon.

 _But why is she so bent on finding it? What is the source of her obsession?_ Rhaenys forced herself to focus on the discussion rather than the hateful gaze of her aunt.

"Dorne is the natural spot, Egg." Rhaenys stood and walked over to the end of the table where Dorne was carved. "Cousin Arianne will lend us support after she has Manfrey Martell imprisoned."

"Manfrey Martell should not have been allowed to succeed to the Dornish throne in the first place," Daenerys said. "Why was it that it even happened?"

Rhaenys gave her aunt a cold glare. "Because Dorne seemed to lose confidence in the rule of women following the debacle with Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes. Arianne is no Ellaria. She knows how to play the game."

Daenerys raised an eyebrow at her. "And how would you know? Have you ever played the game - or any game, for that matter? Perhaps cyvasse?"

Aegon stepped in as if he could sense the brewing disagreement. "Sister, aunt - whatever happened in Dorne has already happened. What we should focus on, instead, is our plan after Dorne."

Benerro coughed. "Some of our agents have already made contact with Arianne Martell. She has the pieces in place for a coup - a bloodless one, if Manfrey Martell is compliant. You will have Dorne, Your Graces. What comes after is more important."

"The Reach," Daenerys said. "We will need the breadbasket for our armies. Who rules there?"

"After the destruction of House Tyrell, it seems that open war has broken out between the Hightowers of Oldtown and the Redwynes," Aegon said. He walked closer to Rhaenys, standing on the side of the Sunset Sea. "Our eyes report that the Redwynes have secured everything north of the Mander, while the Hightowers have captured Highgarden and secured everything south of the Mander, except here." He pointed at Bitterbridge. "The Caswells have sworn to House Redwyne and everything south of the Blueburn and north of the Cockleswhent has been a bloodbath. The Merryweathers and Meadows also swore to the Redwynes, while the Hightowers have the Fossoways and Ashfords. The land between Cider Hall, Ashford, Longtable, and Grassy Vale is hotly contested."

Daenerys sneered. "It does not matter which house fights over which land. Whoever we support will win the war. After all, we have a dragon each." Her glare returned to Rhaenys as if silently reminding her that she would find the white dragon. Rhaenys bristled at that.

"The question is, which house do we support?" Aegon asked.

"The Redwynes," Rhaenys said immediately. Aegon looked at her with surprise.

"The Hightowers command the most troops and-"

"Troops don't matter, not for our purposes," Rhaenys interrupted. "The Dornish army was largely untouched in the wars. The Hightower armies are fighting along the Mander. When they hear that we've landed in Dorne and are planning the conquest of Westeros, they will find themselves caught between the Redwynes and Dorne. We work with the Redwynes, we force the Hightowers to parley, and then we convince them to bend the knee to the Redwynes as Lords Paramount. We can work out the specifics - quite a few Reachman houses were destroyed in the wars, weren't they?" She looked at Daenerys, whose fiery glare had not lessened. "We mollify the Hightowers with land, we give Highgarden to the Redwynes, and then we gain both the armies and the navy of the Reach."

"Dragons do not make concessions," Daenerys snarled. "We take it with fire and blood."

Rhaenys crossed her arms. "Interesting. Your tune seems to have changed since your return from Westeros, dear aunt. What was your rallying cry before? _''_ Break the wheel,' I believe?"

"And I will do that, too, even if the Westerosi do not want it. They are misguided fools, and I will liberate them from their delusions," Daenerys retorted. "I would have done so after Kings Landing, had it not been for-" Suddenly, she cut herself off and her eyes seemed to lose some of their luster as if she had withdrawn into the veil of memory.

 _Had it not been for what? Had it not been for who?_ Rhaenys thought.

_Burn them all. Jon Snow._

She had since overheard Daenerys whisper one more name, to herself, when she thought no one else could hear.

_Aemon._

Who were these people? Jon was a Northern name. Aemon, of course, was Valyrian - but there were no other Targaryens than the ones in this room, though Rhaenys knew there had once been a maester in the Night's Watch named Aemon Targaryen, a great-great-uncle or some such relation. But surely that could not be who Daenerys was referring to. That Aemon must certainly be dead by now, and why would she care-

 _Jon._ A Northern name. _Aemon._ A Targaryen maester, at the Wall. Something seemed to add up there. Who was this Jon?

She felt the bravery to ask. "Are you referring to Jon?"

Daenerys snapped back to reality in an instant. "Do not speak that name in my presence," she hissed. She stood and departed from the room in a fury.

Rhaenys and Aegon shared a look. Exasperated, Aegon rubbed his face with his hands.

"Rhae, what in seven hells -"

"High Priest, who is this Jon, and what connection does he have to our Aunt's death?" Rhaenys pressed on.

Benerro's eyes seemed to shift around the room, and he licked his lips before answering. "Jon... Snow is the former King in the North. He is the bastard of Eddard Stark -"

" _Former_ King in the North?" Aegon asked. "Haven't our eyes and ears reported that Sansa Stark rules the North and the Trident? This Jon Snow... was the King before her?"

Benerro seemed strangely nervous to Rhaenys. The bald man seemed to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. "Snow took the North back from House Bolton following the Red Wedding. He was proclaimed King in the North by the Northern lords, and once he found out that Queen Daenerys was the Princess who was Promised, Azor Ahai reborn, he secured an alliance with her against the threat of the White Walkers from beyond the Wall. He bent the knee and was made Lord Paramount of the North under Queen Daenerys, but he was jealous and desired his king's crown back. After the Queen took King's Landing, this Snow betrayed her and killed her. After that, our eyes and ears reported that he departed for beyond the Wall, even as Westeros splintered into the original kingdoms, and his trueborn sister, Sansa Stark, took control. The entire Stark family betrayed Queen Daenerys. They are all traitors and they will all be punished as such, for plotting against the chosen of the Lord of Light in the name of their ancient tree demons, the same demons that created the great enemy..."

Rhaenys felt in her heart that Benerro was... perhaps not outright lying, but certainly omitting part of the tale.

Aegon seemed to accept the tale without too much disbelief, however. "We've only heard some whispers of what happened in the North. But Daenerys defeated them? The White Walkers?"

"Yes. And yet the North betrayed her, anyway."

_What was it they say about the North - 'the North remembers?' If they have not forgotten the Targaryens since Robert's Rebellion, their memories are long and bitter, indeed._

"How was a bastard proclaimed King in the North?" Rhaenys wondered aloud. "It is not as great an impediment in Dorne, but the North and the rest of Westeros are a different story. He must have accomplished something great for them to have given him a crown."

"I do not know the answer to that, Princess," Benerro replied. "Perhaps they did not see fit to crown one of his sisters, and his surviving brother is reportedly a cripple."

"No, that cannot be it. They crowned Sansa Stark, didn't they? No, he must have done something." Rhaenys found her curiosity piqued by this Jon Snow, and his connection to Aemon Targaryen. "And you say he went _beyond_ the Wall after the Battle of King's Landing?"

Benerro rubbed his hands. "Our eyes and ears have reported that he was last headed in that direction, though it has been but two moons since the so-called Great Council. He was tried and his sentence put to a vote. The North, Westerlands, Stormlands, and the Vale voted for mercy. The Reach, Dorne, and the Iron Islands voted for death. The Queen's Master of War, Torgo Nudho, voted for death. When the vote was deadlocked, Snow was given a trial by combat against Torgo Nudho. He killed the Unsullied commander and departed from King's Landing. We have lost sight of him since then, but the Queen is adamant that he will head beyond the Wall."

Aegon paced back and forth. "That is all interesting, but moot. Daenerys has spoken to me of her intentions for the North. All the Kingdoms of Westeros will be given mercy and quarter, even the Westerlands, though Daenerys intends to punish Tyrion Lannister for his role in her assassination. The North, however, will be made to suffer. Treachery is in their blood. Houses Stark and Lannister will be wiped from existence for their crimes against House Targaryen." Aegon fixed Rhaenys with a cold glare. "The Lannisters killed Mother, Rhae. They deserve it."

"I do not contest that fate for the Lannisters, but our grandfather killed Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark," Rhaenys replied. "Father ran away with Lyanna Stark, and the realm burned for it. We have shed enough Stark blood and they have shed enough of ours. If the North bends the knee, do you really think that we should still torch them with dragonfire? If Sansa Stark emulates Torrhen Stark?"

"Why does it have to be Sansa Stark? Any house can rule the North," Aegon said.

"Brother, you remember our lessons better than that - and even if you don't, the story of this Jon Snow should show you that no, the Northmen will always look to the wolves. They preferred a Stark bastard over the Boltons, who were old and powerful and Northern, too." Rhaenys suppressed an inner shudder at the thought of the Red Wedding. Even that story had found its way to Asshai, and it disgusted Rhaenys. She had no love for the Starks or Robb Stark, but traders and spies had whispered of how the Boltons, Lannisters, and Freys had stabbed Robb Stark over and over, and his pregnant wife in her belly. Nobody deserved to die like that.

"Then we will torch them all until one house bends the knee, and if none, then perhaps it is time for the First Men to die," Aegon said, savagely.

Rhaenys was taken aback. "Two moons ago, brother, you intended to be King of the entire realm, of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. And now you propose killing them all? This isn't you, Egg. You've never been like this."

Aegon stiffened. "We are dragons, Rhae. I will give the North mercy if they bend the knee. But that does not mean I have to be merciful to the Starks. They have shown their true colors twice."

Rhaenys shook her head in disbelief. "Egg, this is Daenerys talking through you."

"No. I'm behaving as I should, as a Targaryen. Daenerys has reminded me of what I am - the blood of Old Valyria."

"I'm the blood of Old Valyria, too, Egg, and I don't feel the same way," she retorted.

Her brother gave her a withering glare, one she'd never seen before, and it shattered her heart. As if to twist the dagger further, his words stabbed even more. "You are too Dornish, sister."

Rhaenys recoiled. _She smells Dornish,_ Aerys Targaryen had said.

* * *

_Three Moons after the Great Council of 305, A.C._

Rhaenys watched, fuming, as her brother married their aunt, and as they were proclaimed King and Queen, even if it was in exile.

The ceremony was strange. Rhaenys had always imagined that she would wed Aegon in a sept - perhaps the Great Sept of Baelor when they made their triumphant return to Westeros. She had not imagined a R'hllorite wedding.

Part of her burned. She loved Aegon - not passionately, not like a lover, but she had never been opposed to marrying him and continuing their line. It was what Targaryens had done. There was nothing strange or disgusting about it - they were the blood of Old Valyria, the last of the dragons - who were mere men to judge dragons? She was not jealous like a forgotten lover.

But she was jealous. She was jealous as her brother took his silver-haired, violet-eyed bride, his own purely Targaryen features matching hers perfectly. Rhaenys raged inside as Aegon and Daenerys leaped over the sacred flame of the High Priest, and she felt inadequate again. The old jealousy, the old fervent desire and wish of a child to suddenly wake up silver-haired, returned in her. 

Of course, Aegon planned to take her as a bride and a Queen, too. He had said as much to her when he happily informed her that he would marry Daenerys, planting a brotherly kiss on her cheek. Aegon thought himself the Conqueror reborn. Of course, he wanted his Rhaenys to go with his Visenya - except Rhaenys knew she was the Visenya here. She was second best, the second wife, the lesser. She was not pale, or silver-haired. The only Targaryen feature she truly had were her violet eyes - eyes she had always loved, eyes given to her by her father. 

She knew Daenerys would give Aegon beautiful babes with Targaryen features. And she might not. Her children with Aegon could look wholly Dornish.

 _She smells Dornish_.

Words she had never heard but had only been told stabbed deep inside her.

It was only during the feast that Rhaenys became aware that someone had pressed a paper note into her hands. When Aegon and Daenerys were done dancing and had retired for the night, Rhaenys melted away from the celebration and into the shadow of the hallway, away from the Great Hall of the Black Spire, as footsteps scurried past her. She watched two Red Priests, in animated discussion, move past. When they were finally out of earshot, she released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

In the dim light of the abandoned hallway, she stared back down at the note.

**Rhaenagon nyke isse se ñāqa tistālion va se byllie vestriarzir tolī rȳbantis.**

**_Meet me in the East room on the sixth floor after midnight._ **

Her heart began to beat faster as she read and re-read the words. Was it a trap? Was it some kind of test? She shuddered to think of Daenerys’ reprisal if it was indeed some sort of trial to gauge Rhaenys’ trustworthiness. Perhaps it had to do with the white dragon, the one she still could not name, though she had taken to calling him Ghost in the common tongue for now. She flitted from shadow to shadow, grateful now instead for her Martell features and distinct lack of silvery hair. The irony of it brought a small smile to her lips.

It must have been a little after midnight when she made it into the room, though one could never truly tell in Asshai. She softly closed the door behind her and looked around.

The room seemed like a large storage closet. Dusty, cobwebbed crates littered the floor and foul-smelling stenches wafted out from them. Rhaenys scrunched her nose and breathed through her mouth, trying to avoid getting the stink into her nostrils.

“Princess,” rumbled a deep but soft voice, across from the room. A man stepped out of the shadow – a red priest, cloaked in black, previously blended into the darkness of the room. His skin was dark as coal, but his hair and beard were white like snow, like Ghost. He was tall, and his face bore tattooed flames. Rhaenys took a step back out of caution, her eyes flitting back towards the entry door.

“Do not be afraid, Rhaenys of the House Targaryen. I am not here to harm you.” His voice rumbled in amused laughter. “In fact, I may be the only one to say so truthfully here in Asshai.”

“Name yourself,” Rhaenys commanded, hoping her voice sounded confident.

“I am Moqorro,” he said, giving her a little bow. “I come bearing news and tidings.”

“You left me a note. What was it about?”

“I see you wish to skip the pleasantries. Very well, Princess. I will be blunt. Almost everyone here and in the Red Priesthood seems to believe that Daenerys Targaryen is the Princess who was Promised, Azor Ahai reborn. But this is not true.”

Rhaenys laughed, despite herself. "This is a trick. Daenerys sent you here to root me out as a traitor."

"I cannot be a traitor, because she is not the chosen of the Lord. I owe her no fealty," Moqorro said simply. The pure honesty in his words took Rhaenys by surprise.

She took a sharp breath. “What do you mean? Daenerys saved Westeros from the White Walkers. She took King’s Landing and was assassinated-“

Moqorro rumbled with quiet laughter again. “Sometimes I truly do forget how far away from the world Asshai truly is. And how easy it is to insulate oneself from the truth. Though, truth be told, I suppose your version of the story is not a complete lie. It is more of a… half-truth, shall we say?"

“So then what is the full truth, Moqorro?” Rhaenys challenged.

Moqorro sat on one of the crates and pointed to the one opposite him. “You may wish to sit. It is not a short tale.” Rhaenys inched closer and sat warily as if she expected the man to lunge or strike at any time.

_I am a dragon. I shall not be afraid._

Moqorro smiled when she finally did sit. “You know not the terrible truth. But I shall save that for last because I fear you will harden your heart and not believe me if I start there. You see, many red priests and priestesses have been searching for the Prince who was Promised. One particular priestess, Melisandre of Asshai, believed she found him in Stannis Baratheon.”

Rhaenys had to struggle not to laugh with disbelief. _Stannis Baratheon, a savior?_ She had heard that Stannis Baratheon traveled with a Red Priestess and that he had converted to the faith of the Lord of Light, though the Red Priestess had vanished in her knowledge after Stannis Baratheon was defeated.

“I tell you this because I wish you to know that we do not always see clearly in the flames. Sometimes the Lord’s signs are… difficult to decipher with our weak eyes. I myself believed I had found the Prince in the form of a Greyjoy lord, who has long since died.” Moqorro chuckled as if fondly remembering an old mishap. “However, Melisandre’s visions of Stannis Baratheon were not entirely wrong. During the War of the Five Kings – you have heard of this, no?”

Rhaenys nodded. “We did not receive much information, but I am generally aware of the events. Daenerys and the High Priest have filled in the gaps. The Usurper, Robert Baratheon, was a cuckold three times over, and his heir was a Lannister. The Usurper died in a hunt, Lord Eddard Stark, who discovered the truth, attempted to put Stannis on the throne and was beheaded for it by the Lannisters. As a result, Robb Stark, Renly and Stannis Baratheon, Joffrey… Waters? Lannister? Whatever – and the wildling king all set the realm ablaze. The War of Five Kings.”

“Good, good,” Moqorro said, seemingly pleased that she knew the basics. “Of course, as you know, when Stannis was defeated at the Blackwater, he turned his sails north, under Melisandre’s guidance. However, you may not have heard what happened next. Stannis landed in the North as a young boy named Jon Snow marshaled the Night’s Watch against the wildling invasion. With only a hundred and score men, he held off a hundred thousand wildlings for a night. The next day, Stannis arrived and smashed the wildling army, defeating Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall. But there, you see, they learned the truth – the wildlings came not as conquerors, but as refugees, fleeing from a terror from the Lands of Always Winter. The White Walkers, the Others – they went by many names.”

Rhaenys’ heart jumped a beat. _Jon Snow._ All the pieces were there, arranged in front of her, like a puzzle. Could Moqorro put it all together for her?

“I’ve heard that name,” Rhaenys said. For some reason, she felt herself unwilling to say exactly how she’d heard it - perhaps to test Moqorro. Daenerys' scream of that name still shook her to her core at night.

Moqorro chuckled. He seemed endlessly amused by her knowledge - or lack thereof. “My dear Princess… almost everyone has heard that name.”

“Who is he?” Rhaenys asked.

“That is an important question, isn’t it? But I shall get there. You see, this Jon Snow was a bastard of the House Stark – Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard. He went to the Wall as a young man and took his oath as a man of the Night’s Watch. There, the Night's Watch discovered that the dead were no longer staying dead.”

Rhaenys shivered, despite herself. She had seen twisted things in Asshai, attempts at necromancy, but what she had heard from some of the Red Priests and Daenerys about the White Walkers, their wights, and the Night King still chilled her to the bone.

“The Night’s Watch ranged North, and many were killed, including their Lord Commander. Jon Snow survived by turning spy with the wildlings. He lived among them, learned their ways, made friends – even took a wildling lover, despite his oath, if the stories tell it true. He betrayed them – or I suppose, from the Watch’s perspective, completed his mission – and held them off at the Wall. After their defeat, Stannis Baratheon offered to make Jon Snow a Stark, and to help him reclaim the North.”

“After Robb Stark was killed,” Rhaenys interjected.

“Yes, just so.”

“And this Jon Snow… he accepted?

“He did not."

Rhaenys frowned. _Didn't Benerro say that Jon Snow was the former King in the North? If he did not accept Stannis Baratheon's offer, how was he made King? How did he manage to shirk his vows as a Night's Watchman?_ The Watch had always fascinated Rhaenys during her lessons - men who braved hard lives at the Wall to atone for their crimes, or because they sought adventure, or because the world held no other opportunity for them. But she knew the vows were for life. Desertion was punishable by death.

“Why not?” Curiosity took hold of her. She had not been in Westeros in many years, but she knew well enough how bastards were treated there. To be elevated into a knighthood was one of the best outcomes a bastard could hope for. To be elevated into a lordship was a dream. But a lord paramount - to hold the largest kingdom of the seven? What sort of man would refuse that duty?

Moqorro’s eyes twinkled. “I have not met Snow personally, but… he is apparently very honorable. He took his oaths seriously, forswearing all claims and titles. Stannis marched to Winterfell after burning his daughter to the Lord, because of Melisandre’s misguidance, and died in the snow. And Jon Snow was appointed Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He allowed the wildlings to come through from the North, hoping to make them part of the army of the living before they became the Army of the Dead. For that, his brothers murdered him.”

“What? Murdered him? But you all speak of him as if he lives!” Rhaenys said, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, bile rose in her throat, and she saw the green flames and the burning sacrifices all over again. “Oh no…”

“No, it was nothing like what happened here. For you see, when Melisandre resurrected Jon Snow, it took almost nothing. You see, unlike Daenerys, he was not forcibly brought back from the realm of the dead but sent back by the Lord of Light. There was no sacrifice necessary, only the words and the ritual. Jon Snow came back to life, released of his oaths, no longer a man of the Night’s Watch. He rallied some loyal houses of the North along with the Vale, with help from his sister, and took Winterfell from House Bolton. He was proclaimed King in the North by the Northmen.”

“And that’s how he came into contact with Daenerys,” Rhaenys muttered.

“Yes, just so. Daenerys Targaryen landed in Westeros as Jon Snow was made king. So, they parlayed, and Queen Daenerys did not believe Snow, and Cersei Lannister was not likely to believe him either. So, he went North again, beyond the Wall, to capture a wight. There, in a rescue operation, Daenerys lost one dragon to the White Walkers. She and Jon Snow fell in love, as young, beautiful people are wont to do,” he said with a laugh. “And she agreed to defend the realm from the dead. It was then that Jon Snow discovered the truth.”

“And what truth was that?” she asked.

“That he was not the bastard son of Eddard Stark after all, but the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, named Aemon Targaryen at birth. It would seem that you have another little brother, Princess.”

At this, Rhaenys’ head began to spin. She had to grab the edge of the crate to keep from tipping over. “You lie,” she choked out, but no. Hadn’t Daenerys uttered the name 'Aemon' too? “Father would not have put aside my mother.”

_Jon. Aemon. The one and the same. Of course._

“I cannot speak to that, Princess, but of course that does not mean that he isn't your brother. If anything, it would make him a Targaryen bastard, but his blood is your blood nonetheless. Dragons do not care for human definitions of marriage. However, there is evidence that Snow is trueborn, and what’s more, a servant of the Old Gods confirmed it with his own vision. Aside from that, there were other signs. You see, Jon Snow could ride dragons. He bonded with Rhaegal, the dragon named after your father, though he seemed but a Northern bastard. He is the blood of Old Valyria, just as you are, mixed with the magic blood of the greatest remaining house of the First Men, the Starks. He is the Prince who was Promised, the hope and desire of your father made flesh and blood. It gave him command of a white direwolf, one with blood-red eyes, and of a dragon.”

Rhaenys wanted to scream. _A white direwolf with blood-red eyes. And I have a dragon in my possession just like that. It’s his. It’s… Jon’s. Aemon’s._

_No. This has to be a lie. I cannot believe this. I do not have another brother. Another little baby brother._

“Jon Snow and Daenerys defeated the Long Night, ending the White Walkers once and for all,” Moqorro said, continuing his tale, either oblivious to Rhaenys' despair or unmoved by it. “The realm was saved, and Snow and Daenerys marched south to take King’s Landing from Cersei Lannister. That is when everything went awry. Jon Snow’s cousin-sister, Sansa Stark, plotted to drive a wedge between the two. Rhaegal was killed by the Greyjoy fleet. Daenerys lost her bodyguard and friend at Winterfell, and then she lost one of her dragon children, and then at the gates of King’s Landing, she lost her closest advisor. She did not recover from this, nor from the knowledge that it was Aemon who had the true claim to the throne and the prophecy. She felt disowned and alone, and after the city surrendered, she set it ablaze. What was once one of the most populous cities in the world now has the population of a middling town.”

 _Burn them all._ She felt her stomach twist.

“In the end, Jon Snow killed the woman he loved to save the realm from her madness. For that, he was exiled. Westeros split apart. This is the truth that has been withheld from you, the truth that Benerro does not want you to know,” Moqorro finished.

“So the Red Priests are lying. Why aren’t you? How do I know that any of what you’ve told me is true?”

Moqorro shrugged. “You do not. But tell me truthfully – if Daenerys Targaryen was truly the chosen of the Lord of Light, would she have come back as she is?”

Rhaenys said nothing, but the truth in his words took root. She was not fond of gods, nor of R’hllor, but Daenerys did not seem like the chosen of a god.

“In truth, I believe that Benerro and the other priests do believe that Daenerys Targaryen is the Princess who was Promised. After all, neither she nor Jon Snow was the one to actually defeat the Night King, the leader of the White Walkers - that honor belongs to another. But it is Jon Snow that the prophecy foretold. Benerro and the others are clinging to Daenerys Targaryen in the hopes that she will lead the faith of the Lord into Westeros. Some did not favor Melisandre’s predictions, and her mistakes with Stannis Baratheon did not help her cause. But I, at least, believe that she had the right of it when it came to Jon Snow.”

Rhaenys whispered, “he does not have the Targaryen look, does he? How could he? Robert Baratheon would have had him killed if what you say is true.”

“No, Princess. He is mostly Northman in appearance. But then, you are mostly Dornish in appearance, are you not? Yet he is a dragon, the same as you. He is your blood,” Moqorro said.

“Aegon has the claim,” she said. But she knew as well as anyone that if Aegon were to sit the throne… no, he would not be the worst Targaryen king. He was not Grandfather. But with Daenerys’ influence, who could say how his reign would turn out? All Rhaenys knew in truth was that the longer her aunt managed to sink her claws into Aegon, the worse and worse it would get. And she had not the strength to combat her influence. Aegon was taken with her from the moment she sprang out of the fire. Beautiful Targaryen features, just like Aegon’s. Features that would give him beautiful Targaryen babes. Rhaenys could not hope to counter that. Aegon had never lusted for her, never loved her as anything more than his sister, just as she had not loved him as anything more than a brother, even though they both knew and intended to continue their line in each other.

“Yes. But that is irrelevant next to the Prince who was Promised, is it not?”

“Why do you tell me this? What am I to do with it?” Rhaenys asked. “Do I sit here knowing that my brother and my aunt plan to invade our homeland and bring fire and blood with them? Do I think about this supposed half-brother that I never knew?” A terrible curiosity took root inside her. _What is Jon like? Is he kind? Is he a good man?_

Moqorro simply smiled. “One of your dragons is his. The white one, no?"

Rhaenys' thoughts snapped back to the present. "Is Ghost under threat? Does Daenerys know where he is? Where Eliarron is?" She bit her lip. "He feels different from Eliarron. He listens to me, but only barely. It’s like he’s searching for someone else.”

“Because he is. You must deliver that dragon to Jon if you wish to see your homeland survive the coming storm.”

“I cannot betray my brother. My family,” Rhaenys snapped. “There will be no coming storm. We will reclaim our birthright, but I will ensure that it is done with minimal bloodshed."

Moqorro raised an eyebrow. "You will ensure? How? Will you have your dragon attack the Queen and King's, as they set one Westerosi city aflame after another?"

"Aegon would not let her do that," Rhaenys retorted.

"You do not believe yourself."

"What do you care, Red Priest? Why would you not want your faith spread throughout Westeros? If Aegon and Daenerys bring the faith of the Lord of Light to Westeros, isn’t that a good thing for you?”

Anger flashed through Moqorro’s eyes. “Benerro and the others are ambitious, but they have forgotten the will of the Lord. If He wishes his faith to spread in Westeros, it will. But they sin by going against the true Prince who was Promised in their ambition and greed. I serve the will of the Lord of Light. I only do what He commands. His faith will take root in Westeros when he wills it, not when men will it.”

“Be that as it may, I am loyal to my family,” Rhaenys said. Her protests sounded weak even to her ears. She had no desire to be loyal to Daenerys Targaryen, no matter how much she loved Aegon. She got off the crate and made her way back to the door.

Moqorro gazed at her, his expression inscrutable. “I hear what you say and what you do not say, Princess. Jon Snow is also your family. There will be a time when you are presented with a choice. When it is given to you, I hope you choose the right path.” With a flash of a smile, he put on his cloak and vanished again into the shadows of the room. Rhaenys shivered and left.

What choice? When would she be faced with it?

_A brother. I have another baby brother._

Though every part of her rational mind argued with her that no, Moqorro must be lying and that this was a falsehood drummed up to test her loyalties, deep inside her she knew it was the truth.  
  
All that remained now was what to do with it.


	5. Protector of the Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon defends his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some ages:
> 
> Jon - 23, nearly 24 in early 306 AC  
> Rhaenys - 25 in early 306 AC  
> Aegon - 24 in early 306 AC, a few months older than Jon
> 
> I understand that this is incongruent with the books, but then again, the show ages are in general. In my story, Rhaenys would have been almost two when the Lannister army sacked King's Landing, and Aegon would have been an infant of a few months. Lyanna Stark would have been pregnant with Jon at the same time. 
> 
> Robert's Rebellion, in the show, takes place from about 280 AC to the end of 281 AC. Robb Stark was born first, and then Jon was born a few months after Robb. 
> 
> I don't want to age up Rhaenys and Aegon too much, so this is what it'll be.

**Jon - II**

_Third Moon, 306 A.C._

Jon was just glad that the little town that had sprung up under the Fist of the First Men was not called Fisttown. Tormund had suggested that name with a smirk.

"Seven hells, Tormund, we're not going to call it that. It sounds... filthy," Jon whispered. His Free Folk friend simply wiggled his bushy red eyebrows at him.

The fire crackled in the hall. It was not a great hall, not a great holdfast by any means, but it was home for Jon. It was a little wooden keep - not particularly remarkable or defensible by itself, though the natural positioning of the Fist and the hill made it a secure location. The native Free Folk had taken to calling it Snow's Hill, though the Southerners had a name for it that Jon did not favor. His keep had become something of the lord's hall for the little town at the Fist, though Jon was adamant that no one was to call him lord, or ser, or anything of the sort. The newly transplanted Southerners who had come North did not disabuse their notions easily, and so Jon had found himself a not-lord of a not-town beyond the Wall. 

The interior hall was cozy, comfortable, and homely. Jon loved it. The smell of the wood, the freshness of the air, and the location high above the little town gave him the distance he needed with the comfort of civilization nearby. He did not have servants; he did his own hunting, alongside Tormund. Tormund's daughters, Munda and Halda, lived down in the town with their husbands and often brought supplies that Jon and Tormund could not gather for themselves. He employed a cook - a woman from the Riverlands named Wynna - who had her own quarters.

Along with Jon and Tormund, there sat several elders and senior men and women of the town around a long wood table - a simple thing, though with food-laden.

"We should have a name for the place!" one of them insisted.

"It's you Southerners who think _everything_ needs a bloody high-and-mighty name," huffed one of the Free Folk chieftains.

"The Free Folk name their settlements, too," Jon pointed out. "Hardhome, White Tree, and... well, whatever Craster's Keep is called now."

"Gillyswood, I heard. Craster's living daughters called it that when they came back North," Tormund offered.

Jon suppressed a smile. _Gillyswood. Sam would be pleased to hear about that._

He thought about what might have happened back in the Seven Kingdoms in his absence. He had exchanged ravens with Sam - it turned out that, for lack of a better kingdom to serve, the Citadel had assigned Sam as the Grand Maester of the Kingdom of the North. Sam did not speak much of the state of the North, nor the other realms and Jon was careful not to ask. Instead, they spoke of other things - whether Bran had taken up Lady Meera's offer to visit Greywater Watch (he had, and Sam was of the opinion that Bran deserved some good things in his life), or how Sam was working on a less risky treatment for Greyscale and was hoping to present his findings to the Citadel when it became safer to travel to Oldtown. The civil war in the Reach was perhaps the only mention of politics that Sam had put in his missives; it was almost unavoidable, after all, as Sam reported to Oldtown.

In turn, Jon told him of his life beyond the Wall - of the woods and the fields, the fading snow, and the much more hospitable climate. He told Sam of the heart trees and the Milkwater, and of the little town at the base of the Fist, and his little keep atop it.

He didn't tell Sam about the nightmares, though - not the ones that plagued him every night, where he stood in the ruins of the Great Hall of the Red Keep, sobbing over the body of Daenerys Targaryen, as thin streams of blood trailed down her face from her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. He didn't tell Sam that he relived the death of his love and his kin over and over every night.

He also didn't tell Sam of the other dream. Part of him wanted to blame Bran for putting the notion into his head, but he dreamt of a man and a woman whose features he could not discern, of green flames, and of a screeching dragon. That dream struck even more terror into him than the nightmare of Daenerys. Whatever else had happened, whatever else might happen - that was but a memory, and Daenerys Targaryen was gone. This second dream was not one he could so easily dismiss as the past. 

To escape from the torment of the night, every day he threw himself into the business of governance. Some part of it was ironic - he'd run North, abandoning his claim and his throne, only to take up another one, even if he insisted that he was no prince or lord. He was a leader, and the Free Folk and the new Free Folk, the Southerners, had all looked to him for guidance. He judged their affairs, their disputes. He was present at some of the weddings - many of which were between Free Folk and former Southerners - and was always invited to feasts. He helped with the layout of the town. It was no King's Landing, or Oldtown, or even White Harbor, but it was surprisingly orderly. There was a basic grid pattern, with lots of space to grow inside the ringwall of the Fist. Though they had not many skilled masons, they had some from the south.

To Jon's surprise, the area around the Fist had revealed natural bounty after natural bounty after the snows retreated. There was good stone, waiting to be quarried. They found iron and other metals, like copper and tin. There was good grazing land in the valley, and with a little creative engineering and a particularly helpful piece of advice from Sam, water was brought from the Milkwater into the town. Farmlands sprung up in the valley, and life returned.

Things were not perfect. Tensions flared up between the former Southerners and the Free Folk, and Jon had to adjudicate property disputes, small crime, and one rape - though that rape had threatened to tear their nascent settlement apart by the seams, as Free Folk and former Southerners nearly tore each other apart with blame. Eventually, the culprit was found - a Free Folk man who had intended to 'steal' a Southern woman - and Jon had given him justice in the Old Way, satisfying both the peoples. After that, Jon encouraged as much commingling between the peoples as possible, so as to try and integrate their society.

It was the words of a former Southerner that brought him back to the present. 

"Why not? We already have Snow's Hill and Aemon's Keep -"

"It is not called 'Aemon's Keep', Hallis," Jon interrupted. "Call it what you like, but not that."

"Jon Snow's Keep, then, though it doesn't flow half as well," continued the man, a wiry tanner from Seagard. "The town ought to have a name, too."

"What about Newtown - like Oldtown, but-" chimed in a former Reachman.

"New?" guffawed Tormund. "Bloody imaginative lot you kneelers are. The Fist is ages older than your Southern towns."

"What about Winterhold?"

Jon felt a pang in his heart, some unwanted emotion tugging at his soul. It sounded too much like Winterfell. Memories flooded his mind's eye - a young girl with expert aim, sparring in the yard, Ser Rodrik, Robb, Theon, the Godswood, Catelyn Stark, Father, sitting there, polishing Ice, looking forlorn in front of the heart tree...

_No. Not Father. Uncle._

"Not Winterhold," Tormund grumbled. "Sounds too bloody much like Winterfell. And winter no longer holds these lands."

Jon flashed a small smile at Tormund, grateful for those words. No sooner had he done so, a haggard man burst into the keep, clothes tattered, dried blood still on his face, matting his dirty blonde hair.

"Reavers! Reavers, traveling up the Milkwater!" he cried.

Jon stood, his hand instinctively traveling to the hilt of Longclaw. One of the town elders offered the man a tankard of water, and he drowned it greedily and deeply.

"Speak plainly - what do you mean by reavers?" Jon asked, but instinctively he knew who it was.

_Squids._

"T-they flew the Kraken, m'lord. They torched two small farming settlements traveling upriver. Dagmar's little farm and Jorran's, downstream. Burned the crops, salted the fields, killed everyone. Please, m'lord..."

"I'm no lord," Jon said, as his mind raced. The Milkwater was no Trident, and it did not run as furiously as other rivers, but going upriver would be a challenge. The Ironborn would have to sail into the Bay of Ice, past whatever guard the North had the resources to maintain on Bear Island. If they had gotten past the North, it did not bode well - either the North did not have the strength to contest small Ironborn parties along the coast, or the North did not want to - Sansa had allowed it to happen. The second possibility was infinitely worse. Even so, the Ironborn would have traveled through the Gorge, past Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, and the Shadow Tower. Perhaps they had even set up a base of operations in either keep. From there, once past the Gorge, the northwest fork would lead to the Fist, while the east fork would lead to Gillyswood. They could raid every village up and down the river with impunity. The ships that could travel upriver would be smaller, and the crews would not be big. They would row and they would stop. What was puzzling was that there was little in the way of plunder along the river. A reaver would have better fortune raiding the coast of the North, or the Riverlands, or the Westerlands, or quite literally anywhere but beyond the Wall. There was nothing here, nothing that would interest the Ironborn.

Except Jon, of course. Did Yara Greyjoy really wish him dead this badly? Enough to send men upriver in inhospitable country and to murder innocents?

A dark part of Jon, something he desperately wished to shove back inside, wished that he still had Rhaegal, so that he could fly to those thrice-damned islands and burn Pyke to the ground, along with every fucking squid on the islands.

"Jon..." Tormund looked at him questioningly.

Jon's gaze hardened. He came here to leave the fighting behind. He did not want to wage war anymore - not against the dead, not for the living, not for ungrateful lords and selfish ladies, for idealists or idealogues. He wanted only peace for himself, and for his people as well. All of them. He cast his eyes around the room, gazing at the troubled faces in front of him, former Southerner and Free Folk alike. These were his people. Aye, he might not be their lord, but he'd be damned before he let harm befall them.

"Gather the town militia. All of them," he barked. Tormund smiled and clapped him on the shoulder before charging out of the Great Hall and down into the town. He looked at the town leaders.

"We'll have plenty of time to discuss this later. Gather what men you have. If you want to fight, come with me. Let's cast these fucking squids back into the ocean," he growled. 

_I am going to bring fire and blood to the Ironborn,_ he thought.

* * *

Jon and the militia of the town, just over a hundred men and spearwives and warrior women, marched south along the Milkwater that night. Jon kept the main column away from the river, though some of the best trackers were closer to the river. They also had with them Gromnir, a Free Folk warg with an owl who circled the skies and kept an eye out for squids away from water. Jon himself had Ghost, and Tormund was with them as well. There were no squids, not that they could see, but there was plenty of destruction.

Hold after hold, farm after farm was pillaged, with dead men and women lying around. Old Free Folk, new Free Folk from the south - it mattered little. The Ironborn came and reaved and pillaged. Men lay dead and rotting, as did women and children, in various states of defilement. Jon gritted his teeth at the sight. If he found Yara Greyjoy here, he would have her head. They had learned nothing from the tragedy of King's Landing.

That same dark part of him, the one that wished to torch Pyke and the Iron Islands to the ground, roared again, telling him that Daenerys had the right of it. What kind of world had they left? The wheel Daenerys had come to break still rolled along, crushing the weak underneath. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps...

 _No. I cannot let myself go down that path,_ Jon thought. _Daenerys did. No matter how cruel the lords and the highborn are, no matter how much the smallfolk suffer - her way was not the right way. She may have defeated Cersei, but at what cost? How many did she crush with her own wheel?_

A fortnight after they set out, down the Milkwater, they found two armed parties - Free Folk and former Southerners among them. They were men and women from Gillyswood and White Tree. Both towns had gotten word that there was raiding along the Milkwater and tributaries, and had marched to the river junction. They had no idea that the men from the Fist were also coming. Jon noted that in case of future threat beyond the Wall, the towns had to maintain some kind of central authority, appoint some military headman, keep messages, perhaps even carve out dirt roads from town to town. 

Almost like a kingdom.

The armed parties hailed Jon and Tormund and agreed to fight under his command. The leader of the men from White Tree was Hrodgar, who brought eighty-two fighting men and spearwives, and the leader from Gillyswood was a southerner, a grizzled Stormlander mercenary named Jaron who'd fought from beginning to end in the war in the Riverlands, with seventy-eight under his command. Together, as a combined force, Jon had command of just under three hundred - a veritable army. A curious part of him wondered what the full fighting strength of the true North might be if ever it was roused under a united leader. Mance had managed to muster a hundred thousand, but many of those were non-combatants and children and the elderly. And many of them were dead now. Between the survivors who had trickled back North and the refugees who'd come with Jon, perhaps there were only fifty or sixty thousand people beyond the Wall, though more people came slowly, displaced, and in search of a new home.

Conferring with Tormund, Jaron, and Hrodgar, along with their warg Gromnir, Jon determined that the Ironborn must be using one of the castles along the wall as a base from which they would launch their raids. The host trickled down the Milkwater, traveling slowly and away from the river, using Gromnir and the scouts to avoid detection. A sennight later, and they had arrived near the remnants of the wall, by Westwatch and the Shadow Tower.

Jon knelt by the fire, late at night, alongside Tormund and Jaron and Hrodgar as Gromnir returned to normal, his eyes going from milk-white to their usual sparkling blue. He spat in the ground and wiped the remaining spittle from his golden-brown beard.

"How many?" Jon asked.

"About five hundred squids and fifteen ships. They plan to sail back up again before first light," answered the warg gruffly. "Something else. The castles are manned. Not heavily, but they are."

"More squids?" grunted Tormund.

"No. Wolves. Grey wolves."

All of them turned to look at Jon. He felt the red curtain descend over his eyes, as a primal rage settled into him, filling his heart, his head, and all of his limbs down to his fingertips and toes. Sansa's treachery knew no bounds, nor did his anger at it.

_Gods damn you, Sansa. Is this a bargain you struck with Greyjoy? Keep your shores safe and subject me and mine to the reavers?_

Tormund rubbed his bearded face. "Unless the Stark men join them, we can win. We could rain fire down on them from the gorge..."

"No," responded Jaron. "The canyon walls run all jagged-like. Ain't good views for the archers."

Jon stared at the fire for a moment. "We passed a flatter area, closer to the river, two nights ago, did we not?"

"Aye," said Hrodgar. "Good flat land goes straight up to the riverbanks on both sides. The river is narrow there. Boats have to go single file up the river there with oarsmen."

"And with good forest cover, almost up to the water," Jon added, baring his teeth like fangs. "This is what I propose..."

* * *

Three nights later, they waited under cover of the late-night, almost before morning. Jon tightened his grip around Longclaw, and he exchanged a glance with Tormund. Gromnir's eyes were still milky, but he soon came to, grunting at Jon.

"Ten minutes."

"Wolves?" Jon asked, a pit forming in his stomach. It was a cool and crisp night. A gentle wind blew, but it was the kind that could seep into your clothes, through the cracks and crevasses of one's furs, and settle into your bones. Jon loved it, as did many of the Free Folk, though he could sense that some of the former Southerners fidgeted around in it, the way that many of the new men of the Night's Watch used to. They'd get used to it.

"No. Only krakens." Jon breathed a small sigh. Ghost silently padded next to him, panting softly in the night. Jon rubbed a gloved hand through Ghost's fur, letting the warmth and steady breathing of the wolf calm him. He found his own heart's pace joining with Ghost, and it felt incredibly right. The bond still brought a smile to Jon's face.

Gromnir's news was something of a relief. It was still a problem if Sansa had some kind of agreement with the Ironborn, but it was less of a problem if they did not join the Ironborn in reaving and raping upriver.

"Did you signal Jaron and Hrodgar on the other side?" Jon asked.

"Aye. Flew Artur down and through their ranks, past Jaron." He affectionately nodded at the dark owl that flew in from above, perching on his shoulder.

"Good. Get ready, then." Jon walked through the ranks of waiting men, his stance low. Small torches lay blazing on the ground every ten feet or so, and archers wrapped their arrows in materials that burned easy. The trees provided good cover, so much that even the smoke of the torches went unseen from the river. "Remember boys, fire at the first, middle, and last ship, and only when all are in range. We want to block their entry and exit. Make sure they can't retreat. They'll have to get off the ships or burn."

The men nodded their assent, and Jon shared words with each, Free Folk and former Southerner alike. It heartened him to see the men unite over the course of the week, sharing meals and no longer segregating themselves. No longer did Free Folk only sit with their own, or Stormlander with Stormlander, Riverman with Riverman. This was their home - all their home, and they were now true Northmen. There was a heart tree in the forest, and former southerners and Free Folk knelt by it, saying their quick prayers before the battle. Jon glanced at the tree and said some quick words of his own. He was not sure he believed in great and powerful gods, not in the omnipotent sense, not in the way Melisandre's people worshiped the Lord of Light or the way southerners worshipped the Seven. The Old Gods were spirits, and life itself. Even if they could not grant prayers, Jon did not feel that he spoke to something that did not exist.

At least, he hoped. That terrifying abyss he'd been in when Melisandre brought him back, still haunted him.

His thoughts were interrupted by splashing water as the first Ironborn ship oared its way upriver. He raced to the furthest archers, ordering them to keep track. When the fifth ship passed and the last one was in sight, bringing up the rear column, Jon gave the order.

His archers shot their flaming arrows at the first and last ship, and when their blazing projectiles sailed high over the forest canopy and into sight, Jon heard the yelling of the Ironborn. Flaming arrows came shooting across from the other side of the river, too, as Jaron and Hrodgar's men took out the middle ship. Soon, the ship column was trapped. The first, last, and middle ship had caught fire. The Iron fleet was not so iron as their ships burned, hemming the squids into the trap. And the Ironborn were not Iron, either. They burned, and when they punctured, they bled. The Ironborn clambered off their burning ships and swam to shore. Some of them drowned, others died as arrows hailed down, but enough made it onto land - some on the other riverbank, but most on Jon's side. He didn't give the Ironborn a breather. Cries went up as Jon let out a guttural roar, and began the charge. Behind him, the cries were echoed, in dozens of different voices and words.

"Charge! For the true North! Slay the squids!"

"Death to the squids! Fuck the reavers!"

"Jon Snow!"

and finally, "Aemon Targaryen!"

 _Aemon Targaryen_ went up the call. And again, in Westeros, for the first time since Rhaegar Targaryen, Andals and First Men happily and willingly took up arms under the leadership of a dragon.

Jon and his men crashed into the Ironborn with a fury. Jon roared as he swung Longclaw, lopping off the arm of a screaming man wearing the bone hand of House Drumm. He silenced him by lopping off his head with the sword. The rush of battle overtook him, and he ceased to hear, as blood rushed through his temples. All he heard was the steady beating of his own heart, and the screaming of men and clanging of metal subsided. The battle was quick and bloody. The Ironborn did not stand a chance. Half of them abandoned their weapons or armor on the ships, and they were exhausted when they made it to shore. Jon killed two more reavers, Longclaw slicing through their weak armor and gambesons like a hot knife through butter. Tormund stabbed another with his knife and when the man fell, the red-headed Free Folk man hacked at him with an axe, turning him into bloodied mince-meat. 

When it was over, only a few Ironborn were left. Jon's forces were without mercy. The families the Ironborn had slaughtered and pillaged were kin and friends and neighbors to his men, and they were enemy combatants. Jon did not begrudge them their justice. Among the Free Folk, the casualties were little. The arrows, the flames, and the river had taken care of much of the work, and the individual Ironborn fighters were not of note, more suited to quick raiding than a pitched battle. Their so-called Iron Price was rather cheap in the end. Jaron had captured the leader of the men on the other side, a Donnel Drumm of Old Wyk. He was put in chains and brought before Jon.

Jon knelt and stared at the dark-haired man in his storm grey eyes. He knew straight away that intimidation would not work. Many of the Ironborn were a cowardly lot, preferring raids and reaving over a fair fight. Not this one - he was a warrior, through and through, true Ironborn. He spat at Jon's feet as he was brought near, and Hrodgar almost lopped his head off for it, though Jon stopped him before it was done.

"You know who I am?" Jon asked.

"Fuck you, Snow."

Jon grinned at him wolfishly. "That's not my name."

"You're a bastard."

Once, that would have stung. Not anymore. He ignored it.

"Did your queen send you?"

The man eyed him with hate. "I'm not telling you a word, bastard. We're going to keep coming. And the Northmen, you think they'll let you live in peace? They're going to come for you too. You didn't get the fate you deserved. We fought and bled for Daenerys Targaryen. We were going to be part of her new world-"

Jon laughed sharply, barking like a madman at that. "What new world? The one where her dragon laid waste to everything? You would have been kings of ashes. You fucking squids," he said. "You never learn. You just reave and rape and pillage. That's all you know. Daenerys Targaryen would have burned you all to death if you dared so much as step foot onto a beach that wasn't yours."

Drumm glared at him. "What is dead may never die."

Jon smashed a gloved fist into Drumm's face. "You don't know a damned thing about death."

Another punch cracked the Ironborn's jaw. "I've died before," Jon grunted.

Another punch. "I'm the only one here who can say that. Now, words," Jon spat at him. The Ironborn could not talk, even if he wanted to. He'd bitten down on his tongue and bitten it clean off when Jon punched him the third time. He made a bloodied choking noise, and Jon lopped his head off. The Free Folk nodded their approval, murmurs of 'the Old Way' and 'King Crow' passing among them. The Southerners stared at him with awe.

"Gather the heads into sacks. We have a message to send," Jon muttered.

* * *

Two days later, in the earliest part of morning, when the sun had barely begun to peek out over the foggy crags that towered over the Milkwater by the Gorge, the Stark guardsmen at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge saw two figures march up and to the bridge. One was tall and dressed in Wildling fur, but the other, the shorter one, wore all black, almost like a man of the Night's Watch. 

"Halt! Halt whoever goes there! State your name and your business."

The two men did not heed the order, inching closer. They trudged with several dirty and ragged sacks trailing behind them on a sled. 

"Your name, strangers! Or we will shoot!"

The taller man stopped, but the shorter man inched closer, until he took off his hood. Murmurs and muttering went up among the guards at the tower - at least some of them, veterans from the war, recognized Jon.

"My name is Aemon Targaryen," he said, somberly. "Tell my cousin Sansa Stark that I have a message for her."

The guards glanced at him nervously, wondering what he would say next. But Jon said nothing. He simply walked over to Tormund, and undid the ties on the sacks.

The men manning the tower watched in horror as Jon and Tormund dumped head after Ironborn head on the ground, quietly. It was only after Jon had dropped them all in plain view of the terrified guards that he said anything. 

"Tell Sansa Stark that the true North remembers. Tell Sansa Stark that the true North is under the protection of House Targaryen. Tell Sansa Stark that beyond the Wall, she will find only fire and blood." With that, Jon turned around and went back over the stone bridge, Tormund walking tall beside him.

* * *

When Jon and Tormund arrived at the fork of the Milkwater, the councils of all nearby towns and the headmen of the smaller villages were there. A fairground of sorts had been set up - tents were all over the place, and men, women, and children scurried about the camp, making merry and celebrating the great victory. Jon smiled - it had hardly been a battle of note, and during the war, it would have counted for little more than a minor Riverlander creek skirmish, but it was a victory nonetheless for the new, true North, and its residents celebrated the defense of their home. They celebrated Jon, most of all, their victorious leader, with a feast. The hero-worship that had taken hold of the Free Folk with Jon had only intensified, and some whispered that he was an Old God in man's skin. Some of the former southerners seemed unnerved by that thought, but most seemed to accept Jon's leadership, as it was a more natural way of things for them.

The feast was loud and boisterous. Mutton, goat, and various poultry dishes were served. Hearty soup was passed around, and there was ale and mead aplenty. Jon and Tormund enjoyed themselves - Tormund in particular, who seemed to exaggerate every feat in battle with every drink he imbibed.

"So there was Snow, charging out the forest, screaming bloody murder, and he charged straight into the teeth of a dozen Kraken-"

"Kraken don't have teeth," Jon said, huffing. "They're bloody squids."

"In this story they have teeth!" Tormund declared with a big laugh. "And Snow here charged right into them, like the madman we all know him to be." That received a round of loud ayes and laughter, and even Jon couldn't suppress a smile.

As revelers began to disperse, Jon requested the presence of all the leaders, elders, and chieftains who were present. Among them were Hrodgar of White Tree and Jaron from Gillyswood. There was also a hulking man with bone armor named Tarkan, who was a chief of the Ice River clans, and elders from Hardhome had come, too. Little villages sent headmen, and other tribal chieftains had flocked there as well. Though not all the villages or clans were present, many were.

Jon laid out his thoughts. "The true North is widespread - though not as widespread as the Kingdom of the North, but more sparely populated. And now, we've learned from the Drumm man that we face threats. These Ironborn will not be the last, and we cannot trust the Northmen, either, who covet our lands here beyond the Wall. I propose, friends, that we take account of all the people we have in our land. All men, spearwives, women, and children. We take account of how many fighters we can muster. Make no mistake - we have enemies. Some are my personal enemies - others have been thrown at us by covetous cravens. We will have to raise men and fight again. We need communication between the towns and a way to call fighting men together when the need arises. We need some system-"

"We have a system, in the South. It's called a kingdom," Jaron interrupted. Some of the former Southerners voiced assent.

"There are no kings or lords here, beyond the Wall," Jon countered. "Here, we are all Free Folk, including all of you who came with me from the South."

"But even the Free Folk have had kings before," shouted Gromnir.

"Aye, that be true. We don't follow blood, and we don't kneel, but we follow strength and honor. Man gets what he earns here, not what his father earned. You've earned it a thousand times over, Snow," Hrodgar said in agreement.

"Hrodgar speaks true," muttered Tarkan. That took Jon by surprise. The leader of the Ice River clans was not a talkative man, notoriously independent and aloof. "We will need warriors and leaders. Can't fight well if we have a hundred heads. We need the one. I can't think of a better man than Snow."

More and more murmurs of assent passed around the tent.

Jon should have known better, in the end. When Moggrim, the chief of nearby Heartsleaf town, stood proud in front of the feast table and Jon and pledged his axe to the White Wolf, he felt a creeping feeling in his heart, the same eerie foreboding that had crept into him when Lyanna Mormont had told him that the North knew no king but the King in the North, whose name was Stark.

Tormund leaned over and whispered to him. "You keep running from a crown and every desperate fucker keeps handing you one. Don't think you'll be able to get out of this one, Snow."

"Not unless I pack up and run for Essos," Jon muttered wryly.

None of the Free Folk knelt, but they brandished their weapons and joined Moggrim - Hrodgar, and Gromnir the Warg, and Chief Tarkan and the elders of Hardhome - and gave their loyalty to Jon. Some of the former Southerners knelt, but it brought a smile to Jon's face to see most of them, including Jaron, and Mikkel and Jory, his former lieutenants from the refugee train, stand tall when giving their loyalty as well, as they proclaimed him the Dragon of the North. Aye, it was better to have Free Folk on one's side, proud and unbent, than a bunch of kneelers. And the former Southerners truly proved again and again in such a short time how 'former' they were, as they adapted more and more to the customs of the Free Folk.

But it was the loyalty of his town, the town under the Fist of the First Men, Snow's Hill, or Aemon's Keep, or whatever blasted name the place had now, that warmed him the most. His men stormed the tent and proclaimed loudly their allegiance to him King Beyond the Wall, the King in the true North. The shout was contagious. The cry went up all around the camp, and people flocked to the center to see what the commotion was. And as they did, they heard the cry.

'King Jon!' from the Free Folk

'King Aemon Targaryen!' from the former Southerners.

'The King beyond the Wall!"

* * *

It took a sennight for the ravens to reach Winterfell, and by the end of the moon, every kingdom in Westeros had received letters, written in the blood of dead Ironborn - Casterly Rock, Storm's End, the Eyrie, and the others, and especially Pyke.

_To all the South:_

_The Kingdom beyond the Wall, the true North, is not part of your domain. It is an independent and free land. Any reavers, raiders, or armed men sent into the Kingdom will be treated as hostile forces and destroyed. We welcome good and peaceful contact. We welcome you to trade. But if you come with ill intent, know that the Kingdom is under the protection of House Targaryen. If you come seeking to do harm, here you shall find only Fire and Blood._

_Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of his Name, the White Wolf, the Dragon in the North, the King beyond the Wall, Commander of the Free Folk, and Protector of the Realm._

The only man who smiled at the letter was Tyrion Lannister, who thought to himself that perhaps Jon Snow had found himself with a throne he couldn't run from.


	6. The Ends of the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one meets someone.

**Arya - I**

Fourth Moon, 306 A.C.

Arya Stark of Winterfell breathed a sigh of relief when her ship docked in the darkened pier. Silent waves lapped the wooden hull of her ship. Tattered sails lay still, as there was no wind to set them aflutter. In fact, there was very little here in the way of life at all.

Arya’s eyes narrowed. She had encountered danger after danger, unknown after unknown, and yet somehow, now that she’d arrived here, she felt more danger than ever, even though she knew of this place.

The great black spires of Asshai stood proud in the night sky, as a reddened crescent moon hung low in the sky and bathed the entire city in a ghostly, eerie light. Many of the spires were entirely unlit, and there were no lights in the windows. The city was gigantic – bigger than King’s Landing, bigger than Braavos, bigger than Oldtown all thrown together. Asshai’s walls would have room for all of them and then some. But Asshai seemed to barely have the population of White Harbor.

One could be forgiven for thinking that Asshai was a bustling metropolis when Arya got off the ship. The dock was actually fairly busy, and there were familiar people all over – very few Westerosi, but people from the Free Cities, some Dothraki, and many Red Priests. Arya’s brow furrowed at the sight of them, but she could not afford to worry about it right now.

Her ship and crew had seen enough disease, sickness, and death for a lifetime. And yet, they had also seen wonders.

She shivered as she thought of great, colossal pyramids, their steps stained with the blood of sacrifices. She thought of monstrous creatures – frightening reptiles in coastal swamps, almost like dragons without wings, and buffaloes that looked like nothing she’d ever seen before.

A whole new world. A world she did not have the time to explore, because, it turned out, it was not so new after all. There were already people living there, and they did not take kindly to strangers.

She banished the thoughts from her mind as she focused herself on the here and now. If she started to recollect all that had happened to her in the past year, she would get sucked into memory and forget to be present.

_If you are with your troubles when fighting happens, more trouble for you._

She smiled and thought of a different time, and a long-lost teacher.

She strode a little further into the city, past the busy docks. Some streets were fairly active, including one with taverns and bordellos. She found lodging for her crew at one of these – she had the coin for it, and after all that had happened, they deserved the shore leave, before they departed for Qarth, and then towards the Free Cities, before finally returning to Westeros through White Harbor. Other streets, however, lay entirely empty – and not in the way that some streets were late at night in cities, when all the people had gone to sleep. No, Asshai was empty in the sense that it was devoid of people.

And the people who did seem native to this land were a strange lot. Arya knew to be wary around them, and the Red Priests who were ubiquitous to the place.

There were large highways that ran through the city that was entirely abandoned, though the fountains still sprayed forth the fluorescent night water of the Ash River, bathing the street in a strange teal glow. The Ash ran through the middle of the city, and its delta opened into the Jade Sea.

Her nondescript brown boots clacked against the well-paved streets of the empty city. She was careful when exploring, but after a while, the emptiness started to get to her, and her weariness deepened. Something told her to turn around and go back to the inn and sleep, but she shook it off, her curiosity waging war against her body’s needs.

It took only five minutes for Arya to realize that she was being tailed. Whoever it was, they were good, and their skin was dark, which would normally have helped them blend into the night of Asshai. But they – he, most likely, though one could never be sure in parts of Essos – had a mane of white hair and were clad in dark red robes. The person walked with a staff in hand.

Arya was quick. She cut through streets and alleyways, keeping a mental track of the turns she took. Asshai, with its emptiness, felt labyrinthine. She had to fight down a sudden mad urge to run, and a sickening feeling crept into her heart that she was being hemmed in rather than escaping. Illogical panic began to set in, as she felt like she had lost her way, descending further and further into the maze.

She was forced to confront it when the man who tailed her appeared in front of her, in the middle of an abandoned concourse. Once, there must have been a bazaar here, under the large domed sunshade – not that Asshai had much sun to shade from – and people would have been plentiful. Now, every building in the vicinity lay quiet and darkened, the windows betraying no signs of life.

That was fine with Arya. No witnesses.

The man’s stance, however, was not aggressive. Now that Arya got a better look at him, he appeared to be a Red Priest, of a sort, though he had a powerful build that seemed to belong more to a warrior than to a clergyman. He carried with him an iron staff.

Arya said nothing, waiting for him to make the first move.

“You are a long way from home,” he said, after a moment. He was not close, and he did not speak loudly, but the stillness and quiet of the street allowed his voice to carry, as if desperate for any noise to travel along its abandoned cobblestones.

Arya said nothing, still. She watched and waited, wondering what else of his knowledge the man would reveal.

“But who are you, right now? Who do I speak? Perhaps I speak to a boy destined for the Night’s Watch, or a friend to a blacksmith. Or perhaps you are cupbearer to Tywin Lannister or a fishmonger in Braavos. Maybe you are an aspiring actress named Mercy. Perhaps you are no one,” said the man. His voice was of a soft, heavy timbre, and his tone was warm.

But Arya froze, nonetheless. “Name yourself,” she found herself saying, though she did not will the words out of her own mouth.

“I am Moqorro, and I am… perhaps not a friend, but an ally. And I know who you are.”

“I’m no one,” Arya said defensively.

The man laughed, and it rankled her. “I think that is not true. I believe you told the Faceless Men as much, Arya Stark of Winterfell. But I see that I have put you at unease, and that is not my intention. Please forgive me.”

Arya’s hand flew to Needle.

Moqorro’s stance still did not change, and he did not make any threatening moves. If anything, his body language became even more open, and he seemed to present as unthreatening a visage as he possibly could. Arya was practically on her toes, waiting for some kind of ambush or treachery. She felt her heartbeat pound faster and faster.

“Lady Stark, I require your assistance,” he said.

“Funny way to ask for it,” she spat back. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”

“I am following you because I need you to follow me somewhere. And please, do not tarry. This city is never as empty as it seems.” With that, Moqorro turned heel and walked away, beckoning with his hand, but not looking behind to see if she would follow.

Arya blinked. As if someone else was controlling her body, she took a tentative step towards where Moqorro had begun to walk.

“Please, hurry, Lady Stark. Your brother’s life depends on it,” came the man’s voice.

Arya brandished Needle on pure instinct and bounded after him. When she drew close, she snarled.

“Enough. Tell me what you want, how you know who I am, and why Jon’s life depends on whatever you have planned for me,” she said.

Moqorro turned around a flashed a faint smile at her. “Lady Stark. Lightbringer. Interesting that you automatically assume I speak of your cousin Lord Snow, not your true-born brother.”

“How do you know so much?”

Moqorro spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I cannot reveal much now, Lady Stark, but I promise you I mean you no harm. In fact, I want only what is best for your brother, the Prince who was Promised, and for you, Lightbringer. I want to serve the will of the Lord, and the Lord’s chosen.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “A zealot? Boring. For a moment, I was intrigued, but the reality is rather less exciting now.”

“Are you not a zealot yourself? In service of a different god, perhaps, but a zealot, nonetheless. I believe the devotees of the Many-Faced God are particularly devout in their observances.”

“The only thing I say to the Many-Faced God is ‘not today,’” Arya retorted.

Moqorro gave her a true smile, now. “Good. Allow me to assure you, then, Lady Stark. Not today.” He turned on his heel again and began to walk away, gesturing again with his hand. Arya followed again, some base wolf-instinct telling her that Moqorro truly meant her no harm, though he certainly was strange.

Moqorro seemed to wind through the city, leading her further and further away from the center, where a large black spire stood high into the sky, its top almost out of view. He instead went distant to it, though the city continued to be empty. Before, where she had maybe seen one or two lit windows, here there was pure darkness. There were no more fountains with the fluorescent waters of the Ash, and though the reddened moon was still visible, the night stars were not.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at a large manse. It too was abandoned, though Arya could not tell for sure. It was a large, columned compound, and there were no signs of life from the outer windows, but that did not mean there was no one living within the bowels of the manse.

“There is someone I would like you to meet,” Moqorro said, by way of explanation, gesticulating at the manse.

“And is there a particular reason you could not bring them to my ship?”

“Yes. Secrecy for one. It would not be safe, though if you agree, we will have to chance it nonetheless.”

Now, Arya was intrigued. Who resided within these walls? And what was it that Moqorro needed from her?

Moqorro led her up black-stone steps, his sandals lightly tapping against the stone. Arya was careful to step lightly, as her boots were not exactly quiet on the smooth stone streets of Asshai. The entryway to the manse was large and arched, and two powerful wooden door barred the way. Moqorro leaned his head against the wood and whispered something, and the gate seemed to open on its own accord. When Arya passed through, she looked for servants, or slaves, or household guards, but there was no one. The manse still seemed abandoned, though there were some footsteps on the otherwise dusty floors.

“I should probably warn you, priest. If this is a trap, it’ll be your head and that of everyone else lying in wait for me.”

Moqorro chuckled. “If you can kill the Night King, I would not be so foolish as to take my chances with you, Lady Stark. Though I believe you will desire to stay your blade when you meet who it is that awaits you.”

“You could tell me now,” she chimed, but Moqorro simply laughed and shook his head.

“You would not believe me if I had to tell you. You will only believe when you see.”

For a sudden, terrifying moment, Arya thought of Daenerys Targaryen atop Drogon, burning down King’s Landing. Moqorro seemed to read her mind as she did.

“No, not her. Though… well, you should simply speak to her.”

_Her._

Arya’s mind was abuzz with curiosity now.

Moqorro led her through several hallways, further and further into the manse. The building seemed to have no wend. Arya wondered who had made this place their home, once upon a time – or if anyone had ever lived here at all. Asshai struck her as one of the great empty deserts of the world. Yes, it was far more adorned than the Red Waste, and there was a grandeur to the place, though it was tainted and fouled and the few people who lived here seemed an unsavory lot.

They arrived into a central courtyard. There was a canopy of glass that allowed the moonlight to seep in, and underneath it was a garden. Arya was almost shocked to see it – greenery in the middle of dark Asshai, but things grew here. There was grass, and a tree, and shrubs and flowers.

A lone figure sat at a bench in the small garden, barefooted, wearing a hood over her figure. She stood when Arya and Moqorro approached, and Arya took stock of her.

She was not tall, but she was taller than Arya, and her figure was decidedly very feminine. She did not have a warrior’s build – indeed, the way she carried herself and walked suggested the elegance of a highborn, and there was little aggressiveness in her. When she pulled down her hood, she revealed a strikingly beautiful visage – olive skin, dark brown hair that almost seemed black, and dark eyes that seemed grey in the light. She had regal features, but a button nose that only served to enhance her beauty rather than blemish it. There was something oddly familiar about her face as if she bore resemblance to someone, but Arya could not quite place it.

Only when Arya stepped closer did she realize that the woman’s eyes were not black or dark grey like she had assumed, but a deep, deep violet.

If this was Westeros, she would have stepped back and hissed. Violet eyes meant one thing there, but this was Essos. Violet eyes were not unheard of here, among the Lysene, or the Volantenes, and other places where Valyrian blood ran strong. And it would certainly not be beyond the realm of possibility for there to be some Valyrian traits among even those who did not bear resemblance to the dragonlords.

The woman gave her a little curtsy in the Westerosi style. Arya narrowed her eyes. Perhaps the woman was Dornish?

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Stark,” she said. Her voice was lilting, a little musical, and incredibly pleasant to the voice. Her accent was unmistakably Westerosi, as well, and cultured. She was definitely highborn, and a Dornish origin seemed likelier by the minute. Arya considered for a moment what tack to take with the woman but decided that a lighter touch would suffice.

“And I’m pleased to meet you too, though you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Lady…?”

The woman exchanged a quick glance with Moqorro, and in her peripheral vision, Arya saw him give her a faint nod. The woman fixed her with her violet eyes, and they seemed to carry some unspoken sadness inside.

“My name is Rhaenys Targaryen, Lady Stark. I am your brother’s half-sister.”

Arya laughed. It was not a lady-like laugh – it was near hysteria, loud, shrill, and even punctuated with snorting. She turned to Moqorro, hands on her knees, as she continued to laugh.

“You brought me this far for a joke?” she wheezed, in between peals of laughter. “This far from my ship? Now, where are you hiding the bandits? Surely here is the part where a dozen robbers burst from the shadows and try to murder me, no?”

“She speaks true, Lady Stark. This is Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the eldest child of Rhaegar Targaryen, and the elder sister of Aegon and Aemon Targaryen.”

“Aegon lives, too,” said the Dornishwoman, softly. “He is here, in this city.”

Arya’s laughter ended abruptly. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “There’s no proof. You’re just some Dornishwoman, or some Essosi with violet eyes trotted out to make a fool of me.” Though deep inside, something nagged at her, and the familiarity of the woman’s face did make sense when she thought of Jon’s face. And what would be the purpose of this lie, if not to spring a trap But surely not…

“I do have proof,” the Dornishwoman said with a small smile. “Two counts of it, actually.” She gave Moqorro a slight incline of her head, and he disappeared from sight, vanishing into a room adjacent to the courtyard.

Arya paced around the Dornishwoman. “How old are you?” she asked.

“I’ve seen twenty-five namedays. I hope, with your help, I shall see twenty-six.”

Arya scrunched her nose. “Why would you need my help to stay alive?”

The Dornishwoman sat back down on the bench and patted next to her. Arya gazed at her warily and did not take her up on the unspoken offer.

“There are… certain forces that wish harm upon me,” she said as if choosing her words with care. “And these same forces will wish harm upon you, your family, Aemon, and all of Westeros.”

“That’s bloody ominous,” Arya said. “And by the way, Jon usually goes by Jon. I don’t think he prefers being called Aemon.” She wasn’t sure why she said that – it wasn’t as if she had accepted this woman’s tale, had she? But she seemed the right age. Rhaenys Targaryen had been a girl of two, inching closer to three, when King’s Landing had been sacked. And Aegon would have been an infant, only a few months older than Jon, perhaps of an age with Robb…

For the first time, the Dornishwoman betrayed a sign of normalcy aside from her queenly airs and wrinkled her nose, giving Arya a little frown.

“He chooses to go by his bastard name? He is not. He is my brother.”

“He’s **_my_** brother,” Arya retorted. “And maybe he won’t go by Snow, but he’s been Jon to me my whole life. I won’t call him anything else.”

“Even if he asked you?” the Dornishwoman replied calmly. “Even if he pressed his claim to the throne, as Aemon of the House Targaryen?”

 _There’s some steel under the surface of this one. She may present a sweet and polite face, but there is strength behind the demure princess act_ , thought Arya.

“I suppose if he really wanted… but I know Jon. Even if he went by Aemon publicly, he’d never have me call him anything but Jon.”

The Dornishwoman bit her lip, and for a moment, the walls slipped. “I wish I knew him as well as you seem to,” she whispered. “A little brother I never knew, my own blood ripped from me. That filth Robert Baratheon took everything from me, and even after he is long gone, I found he took even more from me, took what I didn’t even know I had.”

Arya felt her heart lurch – and that was rare enough, as it was. There was a real sister’s anguish in that voice, the anguish of someone who cared for family.

Twin croaks interrupted them both as Moqorro entered the room, carrying two shrouded cages.

“Princess. I have brought them,” he said.

The Dornishwoman thanked him and bade him let down the cages between her and Arya. Arya watched her closely as she touched the fabric of the cages, before pulling them off. What she saw under the shroud astounded her.

There were two small dragons, one in each cage. One was ochre-gold, the color of a fading sunset – Dornish colors, Martell colors, she recognized. Her eyes flashed back to the Dornishwoman – Rhaenys, Arya knew now – and it all clicked. Arya had been obsessed with Targaryen history. Every account of Princess Rhaenys had mentioned her mostly Dornish appearance, though her eyes had been as violet as that of the other Targaryens. This dragon was hers and looked like it.

But it was the other one that truly took her breath away. It was white as snow, and its scales caught the moonlight in a way that made them appear like shining snowflakes. It was the eyes, most of all, however – blood red, just like Ghost’s, just as intelligent and cunning. It could not be anyone else’s dragon. It had to be Jon’s.

Neither dragon could be more than a few months old. They were the size of large cats, still infants.

“How?” she breathed. “How is this…” her voice trailed off, and she stared at Rhaenys. “This has to be Jon’s.”

“I know, and so does everyone else that knows about this dragon, unfortunately,” responded Rhaenys. “I have not named him, but I call him Ghost for now. He was born from the same egg as my dragon. They are twins.”

 _Ghost?_ Arya blanched.

“And unfortunately, they are not the only new dragons in this world. Aegon Targaryen has one, too,” Moqorro intoned.

“And Drogon,” Arya whispered. “Drogon, too.”

Arya watched as Moqorro and Rhaenys exchanged glances. Her eyes caught the Red Priest’s robes, and suddenly, all of it began to make horrible, terrible sense.

“No, no, no, no… It can’t be,” Arya whispered. “She can’t be. She _died._ ”

“So did Jon, apparently,” Rhaenys said. “It’s true, Lady Stark. Daenerys Targaryen was brought back in front of me with a great sacrifice, by the Red Priests. Drogon is here, somewhere, probably hiding out in the shadowlands. She has married my brother Aegon, and they are plotting to conquer Westeros. Daenerys wishes harm on you and your family, and on Jon most of all.”

“She died,” Arya repeated lamely.

The Many-Faced God was the only god Arya had put stock in, but somehow, the Lord of Light had trumped him twice. Once, it was to grant a boon to Arya, or so she thought when the Lord brought Jon back to life. Now, it seemed the Lord exacted his cruel price by bringing back the worst nightmare to haunt her. She still thought of the ash-covered King’s Landing, the searing dragon flames, and the death and misery of that city. She thought of Jon, who stabbed her through the heart, and who was exiled for it.

“I know, Lady Stark. I know. I was there and I saw it, and I wish it wasn’t true. I wish this was all some cruel joke, but it is not. And I need your help.”

Arya faced her, silently telling her to continue with her eyes.

“I need passage to Westeros, to Jon. I need to bring his dragon to him. I want to return home, Lady Stark. I want what’s mine, but I do not want whatever twisted version of it Daenerys will bring. Aegon is blind. He sees only his future throne. He does not see what I see.”

“Fire and blood,” Arya said without emotion. “Death and destruction.”

“Yes,” Rhaenys said, in somber agreement. “Daenerys will make him king of ashes.”

“There’s more to it, though,” Arya pressed.

“Daenerys wants Ghost dead, and likely me as well. I cannot do that to my Eliarron’s twin. And… I truly desire to meet my brother,” she said, with a wistful smile. “From what little I know of your tale, Arya Stark, I think you may be able to empathize with me on that particular emotion.”

Arya nodded; her mind made up in an instant. She was slow to trust, slow to believe, but that white dragon had wiped every doubt from her mind. As well as she knew Jon, as well as she knew Ghost, she knew that this dragon was his, and that every word out of Rhaenys Targaryen’s mouth was true. She was good at reading liars, and this woman was not one.

“I’ll take you to my ship, and we can get the dragons out of here and to Westeros. It’ll be a long trip, but the worst of it is over.”

Rhaenys breathed out a sigh of relief, petting Eliarron and whispering gentle Valyrian words to it, while her other hand snaked out to touch Jon’s dragon similarly. “I am grateful, Lady Stark. I am sure your trip here heading East was tiresome, and I regret to ask it of you-”

“I didn’t come here from the East. I came from the West,” Arya said.

Now, Moqorro and Rhaenys gaped at her.

“I sailed west of Westeros, and I found many things. Eventually, I found my way here to the Jade Sea.” She did not divulge more details, nor did she have a desire to.

“No one has ever managed to make that trip, across the Sunset Sea. What did you find? What was there?” Arya almost smiled at the woman’s natural curiosity that betrayed a childlike wonderment with the world.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll have plenty of time to tell stories on the ship. We have two problems – getting you from here to the docks unseen, and then making it out of Asshai without Daenerys coming on Drogon’s back to burn us all,” Arya said. She eyed Eliarron and Ghost. “It would be nice if they were fully grown. You could just fly to Jon in less than a fortnight.”

“The second point may not be as big a concern as you seem to think, Lady Stark,” Moqorro said. “The Red Priests do not wish it to be known that Daenerys Targaryen is back, not yet, or the Westerosi will be tipped off to her impending invasion. And Drogon seems to be somewhere in the Shadow Lands, right now. Daenerys Targaryen is convinced that Princess Rhaenys is hiding Jon Snow’s dragon somewhere there.”

Arya nodded. “Fine. Can you lead us back to the street of inns? Shit, I’ll have to wake the men and stop them from whoring and spending coin…”

“I have taken care of it,” Moqorro said, smiling a little. “There are some Red Priests who are loyal to me, and to the true Prince. Your men will be waiting onboard your ship.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t have assumed that I would help you,” she said.

“I saw it in the flames,” Moqorro replied, simply. “Now come. It is time for two sisters of one brother to leave this place, and to head West.”

“I don’t even know where Jon is right now, to be honest,” Arya said, bitterly. “I mean, I suppose I know he was headed North, beyond the Wall, but aside from that…”

“Jon Snow has been busy,” Moqorro said. “He is well, at least physically. You can sail to Hardhome and ride to the Fist of the First Men from there, which is where you will find him.”

“And I suppose you’ve seen this in the flames too?” Arya challenged.

“No, just good old-fashioned ravens,” Moqorro said with a laugh. “Now come. Let us depart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering how I could gloss over Arya's western voyage so easily - I just didn't want to write an expository chronicle of what happened to Arya there. I'd rather her tell the tales organically and let your mind fill in the rest of the details. I do not plan on her discoveries playing a large role in this particular story.


	7. Dragon Banners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion attempts a new beginning.

**Tyrion - II**

Fourth Moon, 306 A.C.

Tyrion, Fourth of his Name, King of the Rock, gazed at the rolling hills outside the village of Willowood, and knew all was lost.

His army was a paltry thing – eight, perhaps nine thousand men, at most, green boys, not the men who had marched off to war with Father and with Jaime – stood atop one of the more commanding hills near the village, on the outer reaches of lands held by the Baneforts. Their banners fluttered with them – proud lions, dancing in the wind. But the banners told a lie, and the lions were not so proud, nor so lively. They were a ragged bunch.

The sun shone down on them on the grassy knoll. Behind them, the grass sloped down to a sandy beach, where deep blue waves crashed onto the shore, where the Sunset Sea met the land. The smell of ocean spray reached this far, and Tyrion let it waft into his nose, reminding him of different days. Then, he opened his eyes to the world in front of him.

A great host stood at the bottom of the hill, at least eighteen-thousand strong. Against him, the Westerlands were arrayed, under the command of Daven Lannister, who claimed the Throne of the Rock. With him were the Marbrands, the Crakehalls, the Swyfts, the Braxes, the Farmans, and just about every other major house of the Westerlands. Only the Lannisters of Lannisport and House Banefort stood with Tyrion. Oh, he’d been a fool to think that he could mollify the Westerlanders. Away from the protective aegis of a Targaryen ruler, back in the element of his own homeland, he was nothing other than a kinslayer, a stunted imp, not worthy of his name or his crown or his throne. The Dwarf King was mocked from here to Last Hearth and Sunspear.

“My lord Banefort, I do think this is the last time you and I shall see each other,” Tyrion remarked wryly, speaking to the man next to him.

Quenten Banefort was middle-aged, dark of hair, and pockmarked. He was slow to speak, slow to emotion, but steadfast and reliable. He meant his vows to Tyrion, even if he thought Tyrion beneath him, and he was here until the end.

“We might still carry the day, Your Grace. We have the hill,” Banefort responded. His even tone did not betray the clear disbelief in his own words that must have undercut his sentence, but Tyrion did not choose to point it out. He accepted the display of loyalty for what it was. He’d had little enough of it. The Lannisters of Lannisport were only here because they knew they had it better under Tyrion than they would ever have it under Daven Lannister. Daven was a warrior king. Tyrion was a merchant prince, and the Lannisters of Lannisport only ever cared about profit.

Tyrion should have seen it coming, but even with the benefit of hindsight, he did not know what he could have done to prevent it. Kinslaying was a blemish that one did not wipe so easily. Under Daenerys, people had been willing to overlook it – might makes right, and Daenerys’ might was unmatched. It was a new order, a new world, and a new beginning. But that had all ended up in the flames of King’s Landing and bloodied by the dagger of Jon Snow, and now he was here, facing defeat. Truth be told, Tyrion did not care so much for the loss of his crown. Daenerys Targaryen might have been gone, and she might have succumbed to madness in the end, but it was her and her ideals that Tyrion had bought into. The ideals had lived on, still. All Tyrion wanted was the best for his people, and for his lands. Yes, he was gratified to have his family inheritance given to him, to finally be recognized as a Lannister – or so he thought.

Of course, next to Daven, distant as he was, who would ever see him as a true Lannister? If any of his uncles, Kevan, Tygett, or Gerion, or any of their sons, were still alive, Tyrion would have never been king in the first place. It was only because Daven was distant enough that Tyrion lasted as long as he did, but once Daven declared his intentions to claim the throne and received the support of the Marbrands and Crakehalls, it was all over. Daven was the picture of Lannister – blonde, tall, wild, bushy-bearded, he even looked like a lion with a golden mane.

 _King Daven, he’ll be soon,_ Tyrion thought.

He glanced behind him, where a lone ship awaited him. He thought of that letter from the North, the one that had changed everything, that had given him hope that he would not lose his head along with his crown.

It came written in blood – Ironborn blood, Tyrion thought it to be – and proclaimed a new kingdom, a new king – the man who should have been king all along.

_Seven hells, Jon. You run to the end of the world to escape a crown that should have been yours only to end up on a brand-new throne and a brand new crown. If you ran to Essos, would they make you King of New Valyria? If you were sold to the Dothraki, would you end up a Khal?_

Tyrion was half-convinced that if Jon had become a White Walker, he would have ended up as the Night King half by accident, too.

But the letter gave him unspoken hope of escape, of a way to spare the Westerlands any further bloodshed, and for him to escape with his life. He did not need to be welcomed or accepted by Jon – he would be content to take some small wealth, perhaps buy a plot of land, and retire.

Ruling in his own name made him understand Jon Snow’s reticence. It was bloody tiresome, and Tyrion wanted nothing more than a moment’s peace. Perhaps that was on offer in the true North. And if the rumors held true, the land had become hospitable, not the wintry hellscape he remembered from his travels up there.

“No, my lord Banefort. I would have you spare your men and your lands the unnecessary bloodshed. You may retire to the Banefort or bend the knee to Daven Lannister, as you desire. My cousin is not cruel, and there will be little enmity. I am not willing to risk Westerlander lives for a crown that no one wants me to wear.”

“It is your crown,” the stubborn Lord Banefort said. “Yours by right.”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion said. “And this kingdom and all the kingdoms are Jon Snow’s by right, but he does not rule them, either, does he? Right is fickle concept. My sister once tore Ned Stark’s royal decree in front of the Goldcloaks and Kingsguard and called it a paper shield. Not one of them stood for Ned Stark. In the end, he was betrayed because he believed that everyone else was just like him in believing that rights and honor ever mattered.”

“Blood is different from paper,” grumbled Quenten Banefort.

“That is true enough. But unfortunately, Daven has enough of the right blood too.” Tyrion’s eyes scanned Daven’s army. No, there were too many to hold off. Yes, the ground was advantageous, and yes, there was a slim chance – nay, a minuscule chance – that they might win. But it would be a bloody affair. The Westerlands would fight here and never fight another war again. If the wolves and fish from the North came calling, the Westerlands would not be able to hold them off. When the war in the Reach resolved, whichever house came out on top, whether it be the Redwynes or the Hightowers, they could march in at will into the Westerlands and conquer it. The Westermen would smash their armies here and not raise another strong one for a generation. Already, too many men and boys had died in the War of the Five Kings, and the country could not sustain another draining conflict.

“Will you head north, Your Grace? Back into the wings of a dragon?” If anyone other than Banefort had spoken those words, Tyrion would have taken them for insult, but Banefort was not one of those men. His voice carried a quiet curiosity, and it made Tyrion realize that he was beginning to develop a habit of seeking shelter under a dragon’s wing.

“I believe I did promise Jon Snow I would meet him at the Wall someday. As it stands, he may be the only friendly face in all of Westeros. The Reach is in the midst of war, the Martells hate Lannisters, the Storm Lords haven't forgotten my actions at the Battle of the Blackwater, and while Sansa Stark is not... unfriendly, I would not trust her with my life."

“The Fist of the First Men is a ways beyond the Wall, or so I hear,” said Banefort drily. “Traders claim the savages have built an actual city there. Civilized or not, I suspect you will be safe.”

“As will you and your men, Lord Banefort, if you bend the knee to Daven Lannister. Daven is not cruel, and he will see that you stood true to your vows. If nothing else, I think your men might be thankful to return to their wives and babes without loss of life. Thank you for all you have done, Quenten.”

“Your Grace.” Lord Banefort tipped his head.

Tyrion almost left then, but something stopped him. “My lord, a question, if you will.”

“Your Grace?”

“Why did you remain true to your vows? Aside from being a man of honor. Surely you do not follow a kinslayer easily.”

A small smile graced Quenten Banefort’s face. “Did you know that your uncle Gerion was one of my closest friends?”

Tyrion blinked. “I did not know that, my lord.”

“Gerion used to say that you were the best of Lord Tywin’s brood. You had all the heart of Jamie, the charm of Cersei, and the cunning of your lord father in you, and that the Seven put all your talent in a weak body as a cruel jest. I believed, and I still believe, that you would make the best monarch for the Westerlands, Your Grace. I am not a man of war. I have spent enough days fending off Ironborn reavers and prisoner to Robb Stark to know that war is a disaster for us. The realm could have used some of your rule. I do not think we will know peace with Daven Lannister.”

Tyrion chewed on that thought for a moment. He was sure it was the longest string of words he’d ever heard from Quenten Banefort’s mouth, and he marked it well, for he was sure he’d never hear one so long ever again.

“I pray for peace and prosperity for the Westerlands. I’ve never desired anything else. Pass on my regards to Lady Banefort and to your children, my lord.”

“Your Grace.” Quenten inclined his head once more, and for the last time.

Tyrion’s pony wheeled around, accompanied by the horse of his squire, a Loreon Lannister of Lannisport, a young man Tyrion had come to rather admire during his brief rule. While most of the Lannisters of Lannisport left a bitter taste in his mouth, Loreon reminded him so much of Jaime when he was younger. A bitter feeling in his heart told him that Loreon was one of the things he would miss most about home.

He bade Loreon goodbye, and charged him to be honorable, and true, and knighted him Ser Loreon Lannister. There were many Ser Lannisters, and Tyrion could count on one hand how many of them were worth their name. He hoped that Loreon would be one of them.

The ship was a modest one, and the captain was a Northman from Bear Isle, one of the few willing to risk the wrath of the Queen in the North to make clandestine trips into the Milkwater and up towards the Fist of the First Men. He shared brief words with the captain before pressing a little extra gold to his hand and promising him more if they managed to avoid Ironborn pirates along the coast.

As the ship began to pull away from the shore, Tyrion could make out his army laying down their arms, and white flags of parley go up. He sighed and took his crown from his head, waddling over to the side of the deck. He stared at the crown, a thin golden circlet with a lion’s head adornment, but with no gems on it. 

_What use is this to me?_

He tossed it overboard and watched it sink under the waves, into the deep blue abyss.

* * *

Fifth Moon, 306 AC

Tyrion was half surprised that he made it to the Milkwater in one piece.

The journey was fraught with peril from beginning to end. They’d been given chase by the Ironborn almost from beginning to end, but after passing Bear Isle, for some reason, the Ironborn ceased their pursuit. Tyrion half expected Northern ships to intercept him and bring him ashore as Sansa Stark’s prisoner – not that he and his once-wife held any bitterness against one another, but Sansa would surely have sold Tyrion back to Daven Lannister for an alliance with the Westerlands.

There were no Northern ships in pursuit. In fact, the trip had become eerily peaceful after that. When they arrived at the Gorge and the Milkwater, and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, it became blatantly clear why.

Great banners were unfurled against the walls of the Gorge, and on Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. They were familiar and not at the same time, but Tyrion smirked when he saw them.

The blazon was a great field sable, upon which lay a three-headed dragon. It was the mark of House Targaryen – anyone would have placed it – but it was not a red dragon. Like the Blackfyres of old, who had inverted the Targaryen symbol with a sable dragon on a field gules, Jon Snow – Aemon Targaryen – had a great three-headed white dragon.

 _Rather appropriate_ , thought Tyrion. _Jon Snow always was a bird of a different feather. Why should he not be a dragon of a different scale?_

House Targaryen of Dragonstone, of King’s Landing, was extinct. Dragonstone lay abandoned, though the Velaryons laid nominal claim to it, as did the Storm King, and King’s Landing was still naught but dust, a city of charred bones and ashes. This was a different House Targaryen – House Targaryen of the North, led by a northern dragon, by the song of ice and fire.

When the ship began to row upriver, through the Gorge, it became abundantly clear why the Ironborn had stopped their pursuit. From wooden poles erected at the top of the gorge walls, dead Ironborn reavers hung from long ropes, the birds making meals of their flesh. They lined both sides of the walls of the gorge, and they continued well until the first major bend of the river, where there lay a watchtower. The guards hailed them, and the captain moored the ship to the side of the river and spoke some words to the Free Folk. The conversation was short, and the guard waved them on.

The trip upriver was rather pleasant, and what Tyrion saw shocked him. He’d always imagined there to be wilderness and beauty beyond the Wall, albeit buried under the ice – but now that the snows were gone, and the White Walkers held no sway, it became clear that this was a good land, where people could live and thrive, and they did. Along the river lay guardposts and watchtowers, and smaller patrol boats went up and down the river between them. There were several small villages, really just a collection of five or ten huts, along the side of the river. They bore evidence of recent attacks, but judging by the system of protection and the riverside fortifications that had been erected, these attacks had not been repeated in some time. It was at the fork of the Milkwater where Tyrion was even more shocked.

There was an honest-to-gods town there – not large, no bigger than a medium-sized village in the Westerlands, but it was a town, complete with a palisade, a town watch, and signs of bustling life. The captain of the ship nudged him and told him the name of the place was Forkton, and that it was not the only named settlement beyond the Wall. Hardhome had been renamed Haven, and was a port town. The settlement of White Tree was growing, the first stop for southerners who came north to seek a new life. Someplace called Craster’s Keep had been renamed Gillyswood was getting larger, too, and the captain said that every time he visited the biggest town, the one at the base of the Fist of the First Men, he was almost reminded of civilization.

“And this town, this one doesn’t have a name?” Tyrion asked.

“Not formal-like as yet, Lannister. But the folk there call it by different names. Nothing agreed on yet,” the captain responded.

“Names such as…?”

“Aemon’s Keep, I heard once. Snow’s Hill, too.”

Tyrion suppressed a smile.

When they arrived at the Fist of the First Men, Tyrion was stunned. He’d seen defensible locations before, but the Fist was formidable. A large ringwall surrounded a growing town – nay, a city, in its infancy. The river here was wide, and the river pier was busy as barges traveled up and down the Milkwater, carrying goods to the more remote northern reaches beyond the Wall. Even the captain had seemed stunned.

“When were you last here, Captain?” Tyrion asked.

“Uh… First Moon of this year, must’a been. By the Seven, this place has grown. There were maybe only a thousand people here four moons ago, and now there are…”

“At least double, I would think,” Tyrion said. “If not triple. Even four thousand are not out of the question. Are the Free Folk just breeding like rabbits, or…?”

The captain shook his head. “People come here fleein’ the killin' and the wars, I suspect. Rumors travel south of the new kingdom and how it’s some fuckin’ heaven on earth. It ain’t, but it also ain’t bad, and this king, at least, I know to be good.”

“You do?” Tyrion asked. He wondered where this man had gotten the knowledge.

“I do,” he said. “I ain’t lived in the North fer twenty-five years. We was practically Crownlanders when the war started. My wife and daughter were in King’s Landing when the Dragon Queen burned the city down. They made it out. They saw the King in the North, this Jon Snow fella, kill some men who was rapin’ and killin’ innocents. Man like that, has to be good, no?

Tyrion whispered to himself. “I don’t think you know just how good a man he is, my friend.”

The ringwall extended around the town and buried itself into the rocky crags of the hill that overlooked the town. Atop it, Tyrion saw a small keep – wooden, but changing, under reconstruction, some of it already replaced with stone. Even without paying heed to the great dragon banners, he knew that was the hall of the King beyond the Wall.

As Tyrion disembarked, after paying the captain much of the last of his gold, he walked through the town astounded. The place was surprisingly clean, and a city watch kept the order. It was not some great city – not Lannisport, or Oldtown, and certainly not even White Harbor or Barrowton, but it was clean and growing and good.

All Tyrion could think was that the rest of the realm had deserved this kind of loving care, this guardianship and growth, too. And Aemon Targaryen should not have been so stupid or waited so long to take what was rightfully his. All throughout his life, Tyrion had to suffer through men and women wanting what was theirs, before delving into greediness and demanding more, and then more again. The one man who deserved it was the one who didn’t want what he did have.

It was a long trek up the hill to the keep, especially for Tyrion, but when he made it, he found a strong, wooden keep in the process of being fortified with stone. Parts of the wall and rampart were being replaced, as masons and laborers carted stone up the hill and laid them into what was growing into a formidable wall. The ringwall at the base of the hill, surrounding the town, was also being worked on. In a year or two, this would be a strong fortress city, hard for anyone to take.

But aside from that, even with the din of the construction and the laborers and the people, Tyrion found it easy to close his eyes as the sun shone down brightly on his face, and in his mind, he saw what enchanted Jon Snow about this place. There was peace and simplicity in this land that did not exist down south. Tyrion did not put much faith in any gods, but something about the tree gods of the First Men had always seemed less empty.

“Lost, little man?” A voice interrupted his thoughts - a familiar one.

Tyrion turned around and saw the lumbering Free Folk man.

“Giantsbane?”

The red-headed man cracked a smile. “I haven’t seen you in almost a year now. What are 'ya here for?”

“The wine, obviously,” Tyrion quipped. Tormund laughed at that.

“Well, not much of that here, but I can find you something stronger.”

Tyrion proffered his hand, and Tormund shook it. “It felt like longer than a year, to be honest,” Tyrion said. “Is Jon – King Aemon – home?”

Tormund guffawed. “He might hit you if you call him King Aemon. Fair warning.”

“Warning received. May I go in?” Tyrion asked.

“If you're here, you're Free Folk like us. Do what you want. Ya' don't have to ask permission like a kneeler. Jon’ll be in the hall, going over plans with the builders.”

“Thanks, Giantsbane. We’ll be seeing each other more, I suspect.” Tyrion began to march off into the keep, sidestepping laborers and masons, but Tormund’s voice gave him pause.

“You here to stay, little man?”

Tyrion simply smiled noncommittally and continued on. He walked through the open gates and into the courtyard of the keep. It was a modest affair, something most lords of Westeros would have scoffed at - it was hardly a middling knight's manor, in some places, but it was the seat of a new kingdom, Tyrion tried to remind himself. Besides, he knew Jon's penchant for understatements. Some men were training in the area, and others were continuing to assist with the construction efforts. In the corner of the courtyard, though, there was a table, around which several men huddled. One of them spoke at length, before dismissing the rest. When he turned around, Tyrion caught sight of black curls and a beard that was less full than he remembered on Jon Snow's northern face. Tyrion saw his lips purse as he caught sight of him, and Jon walked over to him He was dressed in black leathers and a fur cloak. For a moment, Tyrion felt the face of Ned Stark staring back at him, but he pushed the thought away. Of course, everyone had believed the lie. The gods had intervened and given the boy everything of his mother's family. It was not Ned Stark looking back at him, but Lyanna, with hints of Rhaegar.

"Your Grace." Jon said, his lips pursed with what Tyrion hoped was amusement, or his trip here would be shorter than he thought. Was Jon bitter, perhaps, about the terms of his exile? Was he angry with him because of what Tyrion had urged him to do?

* * *

_"When she crucified hundreds of Meereenese nobles, who could argue? They were evil men. The Dothraki khals she burned alive? They would have done worse to her. Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it. And she grows more powerful and more sure that she is good and right. She believes her destiny is to build a better world for everyone. If you believed that if you truly believed it, wouldn't you kill whoever stood between you and paradise?" he had asked Jon, when the man came to visit him in his cells. "Som_ _etimes duty is the death of love. You are the shield that guards the realms of men. And you've always tried to do the right thing. No matter the cost, you've tried to protect people. Who is the greatest threat to the people now?"_

_  
Tyrion could see the man weigh his words against his love. Duty on one hand, a woman's love on the other.  
_

_  
"It's a terrible thing I'm asking," Tyrion said. "It's also the right thing. Do you think I'm the last man she'll execute? Who is more dangerous than the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?"_

_Admittedly, the last part, and the part about Daenerys being a threat to Arya and Sansa Stark was a bit of a personal appeal, but it was true. Tyrion needed to tip the scales of duty, for what was duty compared to a woman's love? To the love of the Mother of Dragons?_

* * *

"Actually, Your Grace, I'm not a king any longer," Tyrion said. "Deposed, as it were. I've come seeking-"

"Refuge?" Jon definitely was grinning at him now, and Tyrion warmed to it a bit.

"A place to stay would be nice unless you've heard of more hospitable cities here in the true North. Gillyswood and Forkton are comfortable, but nothing like... what is this town named, exactly?"

"It was too bloody hard getting them to drop the idea of naming everything after dragons or Targaryens," Jon muttered darkly.

"Out with it, Your Grace," Tyrion said, smirking.

"Dragonsreach," Jon admitted, with a sigh of defeat. "It's good to see you, Lannister. I thought I'd see you sooner. I'm surprised you managed to hold on to the Rock for so long." Jon proffered his hand, and Tyrion shook it, as relief flooded him at Jon's apparent lack of a grudge.

Tyrion snorted at the name. "I should have known it was too good to be true. Kinslaying is not a stain easily erased, Your Grace." He paused, considering the gravity of his words. Of course, Jon would consider himself a kinslayer, too. And unlike himself, Jon had actually loved his kin. He still knew that once Daenerys was lost, it had to be done, but he felt pangs of regret in his heart that it had to be Jon who did it. Maybe there was no other way, maybe there was no better road, but he couldn't help but feel that everything that had happened since he had arrived on Dragonstone with the Dragon Queen and her armies was a misstep and a defeat, with the sole exception of the Great War, the War for the Dawn, whatever the bards chose to call it.

"Jon, I'm sorry. That it had to be you."

The King beyond the Wall nodded gravely, understanding his meaning. "A discussion for another day, Tyrion. But we all made mistakes. We all failed her. What happened in King's Landing, in the Red Keep... that's all at our feet."

Tyrion cleared his throat and glanced around the courtyard little fort. It was modest for now, but the position was one of the most naturally defensible positions in the world. Tyrion was not a warrior, but he was an administrator, and having overseen the defense of King's Landing from Stannis Baratheon, he did at least know how to gauge the defensiveness of a position. With the right materials and builders, it would be nigh-impregnable. "Not the Red Keep," Tyrion muttered, "but it'll get there."

"It doesn't have to be the bloody Red Keep. And I'll be damned to all seven hells before I put a throne made of swords in my house."

A vision of the Great Hall materialized in Tyrion's mind. The Iron Throne was always a terrible chair, distasteful and uncomfortable, but it still enthralled those who had designs on it and suckered them into their doom. Father, Cersei, and Daenerys, to name a few. And its victims weren't always those who sought it out, but the ones next to them. Cersei had lost all three of her children. True, Tyrion did not mourn Joffrey, but Tommen and Myrcella were sweet. Daenerys lost Missandei and one of her own dragons, as well as all the other losses she'd faced in the War for the Dawn. It had been the downfall of the Targaryens, the Tyrells, Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, Doran, and Oberyn Martell, Tywin and Cersei Lannister, Robert, Stannis, and Renly Baratheon - every great house had been touched somehow.

"No," Tyrion said finally. "I think it's better that iron thrones become a thing of the past." He looked at Jon with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He'd hoped to find refuge here, but perhaps he had chanced upon an opportunity here - an opportunity to do what he thought he could under the wings of Daenerys Targaryen - build a better world, a good and just one. Deciding to push his luck, he asked, "Your Grace, would you find yourself in need of an additional courtier?"

Jon gave him a lopsided smile, clearly amused. "As the gods would have it, Lord Tyrion," he said, "the Kingdom beyond the Wall has no Master of Coin, and I hear Lannisters shit gold."


	8. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys leaves and learns all about her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically RIGHT after Arya - I, but a little bit before the events of Tyrion - II, the previous chapter. Or you can pretend everything is happening concurrently, it doesn't really matter. Everything will converge when characters begin to meet up.
> 
> Also, yeah, two chapters for the price of 1 :)

**Rhaenys – III**

Fourth Moon, 306 A.C.

Rhaenys glanced furtively behind her to make sure there was no one on her tail. Ahead, the alley seemed lifeless, but one could never know in this city. Even the shadows were sometimes alive. All she knew was that she needed to get out. She could not let them hurt Eliarron or Ghost. Even so, she had little hope of escape, and she dared not feed it.

Ahead of her, Arya Stark of Winterfell stalked in the shadows, flitting from corner to corner, making sure the path ahead was clear. Moqorro trailed behind, making sure they were not followed. Again, Rhaenys was grateful that she was not born with the immediate telltale features of her family. Silver hair would stick out like the sun here; violet eyes were easier to conceal, and in the dark, they looked almost dark grey.

She heard footsteps that did not sound like Arya’s or Moqorro’s, but there was nobody aside that she could see behind, nor ahead. It seemed as if they came from all around. The soft pitter-patter sent chills up her spine as if a thousand icy needles pricked their way up from the small of her back up to her neck. She found her head spinning as her eyes darted furtively every which way, trying to see enemies in the dark. Her breath seemed loud to her, and she held it to see if she could hear others, but only silence greeted her. She cast a quick glance behind her to Moqorro, who carried the two dragons in their crates, shrouded and hidden, and prayed to whatever infernal deity there was in this city that they would not be found. and the other bemoaned their lack of comfort and their cramped quarters.

They would come after her, that was certain. Aegon was one thing, but Daenerys would never allow Rhaenys to leave. Not with Ghost still alive. Why couldn’t Drogon have just taken her to Volantis, to the Temple there? Why Asshai? Why to her?

The answer was obvious, deep down. Volantis was just a city. A jewel, but a city. Asshai was the dark beating heart of something much worse. Fell magic thrived here. And Daenerys Targaryen had been dead for quite a while by the time Drogon had arrived in Asshai.

But Aegon had reveled in the return of his aunt and wife. Rhaenys shuddered to think of the wedding, a strange thing unknown to her. She was not naïve, but still, her expectation was to get married to Aegon in a sept – the Sept of Baelor, when they made their triumphant return to Westeros, and somewhere here in Essos if time became an issue and Rhaenys had to continue the family. She was sure Aegon still intended to wed her at some point if only to further secure their dynasty, but the glee with which Aegon had taken to his new wife killed any desire Rhaenys may have had for the marriage. Yes, he had been afraid of her years ago when it first became clear that Daenerys Targaryen had rallied armies and conquered cities. Aegon knew she styled herself as the rightful claimant to the Iron Throne, and a woman who won cities and mothered dragons like that was not going to give up her claim just because her nephew came crawling out of the woodwork. But now Aegon fawned on her, and Daenerys knew it. Egg never would have thought to ask for the death of a dragon, but Daenerys wanted Ghost dead, and so Aegon did, too. Rhaenys could not comply.

And yet, somehow, as if by the work of some protector god, Arya Stark of Winterfell had arrived in Asshai, providing not only a means of escape but a means to get to her little brother that she had never met.

Gods, it was one thing to meet a new half-sibling when one was young, Rhaenys thought, but to meet one in adulthood? Aemon would surely have a complete personality, a character that she had not grown up with. Aegon, for all his faults, was familiar to her, and that fostered a kind of love that she was afraid she would not feel for Aemon.

But she desperately wanted to. He was her family, her blood, and she wanted to know him and for him to know her. She did not want to be a lonely dragon, cast away and on the opposite side of Aegon and Daenerys, but she knew she had to be. If there was the slightest chance that she could stand with another, and not alone, she was hungry for it.

She glanced at the dark-haired, short woman in front of her. She had heard descriptions before, and Arya Stark matched up well with her aunt. She was no otherworldly beauty like Lyanna had reportedly been, but there were traces, and the personalities seemed to match. If anything, Arya seemed more deadly.

The way Arya had spoken about Jon caused a little pang of jealousy to spike in her heart. She wished she hadn’t revealed so much of it earlier, in the manse, but it had come out almost unbidden. Arya had gotten to know Aemon as a brother. Rhaenys wished she could have done the same.

Rhaenys banished those thoughts from her mind, for the moment. She needed out. She hoped Moqorro and Arya could protect her. The girl, in particular, seemed like a fighter

As she crept through the alleyway, she could see the phosphorescent light of the Ash glowing to her left. That filthy waterway was her one guide, even here where the stars did not guide people. If she followed the Ash, she would arrive at the bay. And at the bay, there were people not of Asshai, people from the Free Cities, or maybe even Westeros. Anywhere would be better than here.

She continued for what seemed like forever. No one followed them, no one stalked them, and no one stopped them, but every second she walked she felt her nerves fraying as the simple fear of discovery haunted her every footstep. It was this paranoia, this sort of fear that drove all the inhabitants of this city mad – or at least, it would if the Asshai’i were not already mad, to begin with. Rhaenys glanced backward at the Black Spire. At the very top, she could barely make out a moving figure, something dark and leathery. Drogon had returned from the Shadowlands.

She prayed that the Red Priests valued secrecy over their desire to kill Aemon’s dragon, because if they unleashed Daenerys, it was all over. At this point, she was committed. If Daenerys found her, her life was as good as forfeit.

Eventually, even in the darkness of night, the silence of the city was interrupted by a bustling noise that allowed her to breathe once more. The port. She heard languages now, languages not of Asshai – alien things, but at least they seemed normal. She heard different Valyrian dialects, the tongues of Ghis, and even a smattering of the Common tongue. But the silence behind her was gone, too, and she heard footsteps, and not Moqrorro’s. She was sure of it this time. But when she turned around to look, there was yet again that infuriating emptiness behind her.

She turned back towards the direction from where the noise of travelers and ships came, her pace quickening as she drew her cloak and veil tighter. Her breathing became faster, erratic, as she dashed from corner to corner, trying to avoid any sources of light as best she could. A sudden terror gripped her as she realized Arya and Moqorro were nowhere in sight.

She turned left, and then right, and then left again, desperately checking to make sure that the phosphorescent light of the river was still there. But when she rounded another corner, she found a dark wall in front of her.

And then the footsteps behind her truly were real. She heard the crunch of boots, and she knew there was someone behind her.

Rhaenys turned, and a man in dark clothing stood in front of her. He had a hood pulled over his face, but he was clean-shaven, and his face was grizzled with scars and tattoos. Her breath left her, as did her ability to speak. Her hand traveled inside her cloak, landing on the hilt of a small dagger tied to her belt.

**“Iksā tolmiot hen lenton, riña,”** he whispered to her. _You are far from home, girl._

**“Iksan jāre lenton. Kesā daor gūrogon nyke arlī naejot se zōbrie sombāzmion,”** she retorted. _I **am** going home. You will not take me back to the Black Spire._

**“Se gēlenka dārilaros kessa daor sagon kreni lēda ao.”** _The silver prince will not be pleased with you._

**“Qogralbar se gēlenka dārilaros,”** she spat. _Fuck the silver prince._

The man lunged for her, but he was large and she was small, and she dove between his legs and out from under him. She cast aside the veil and the cloak and ran as if her life depended on it.

After all, it did.

She could hear the lumbering footfalls of the man behind her, and soon they were joined by others. More men had come. Surely by now, Aegon knew of her disappearance, and the Priests and their lackeys were combing the city for her.

And then a foot tangled with hers, and she fell to the ground, as her pursuers closed in on her.

Hot tears stung her eyes. _No. It cannot end like this. I don’t want to go back to Aegon. I can’t. Kill me, end me, please. Anything would be better than going back._

**“Jiōragon ojūdan, lo ao gīmigon skoros's sȳz syt ao,”** she heard one of her attackers say. _Get lost, if you know what’s good for you._ What could that mean? And then she realized that she was not the one being spoken to.

**“Mmm…. daor.”** Rhaenys found it curious that it was Arya's voice that came in response. And then it was pure chaos.

Between the scuffling of feet and the muffled cries of men choking on their own blood, Rhaenys couldn’t tell exactly what happened, but in a minute, four men lay dead in the alley, their blood spilling out and pooling in the gaps formed by the black cobblestones of the street.

“Are you alright?” said Arya, cleaning her needle sword on the tunic of one of the dead men. Rhaenys nodded mutely, as Moqorro wiped blood from the end of a mace and offered her a hand. She took it and lifted herself to her feet. Moqorro turned a corner and grabbed the dragon crates again. Rhaenys smiled wanly as she heard little agitated croaks from inside the crates.

"Fucking hells," Arya cursed. "I wish they were big enough so I could unleash them on those men." If Rhaenys wasn't still a little dazed from the events of the last five minutes, she likely would have let out a little giggle at the Stark woman's choice of words. She was wholly unlike what she had been raised to believe was expected of Westerosi ladies, and Rhaenys rather liked it.

"Soon they will be, Lady Stark," Moqorro said. "If all goes well, they will be growing up safe from harm in Westeros, in the hands of the Prince who was Promised."

"Are you coming with us, Moqorro?" Rhaenys tried not to let her voice crack as she dusted herself off.

The red priest shook his head mournfully. "Alas, it is my wish that I serve Azor Ahai in person, but the Lord has shown me that my path lies here. I shall try to keep you and the Prince appraised of the movements of Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen."

"Good, we could use a spy," Arya said bluntly. "Just try not to get yourself killed."

"Your concern is touching, Lady Stark," Moqorro said with a wry smile that Arya returned. Rhaenys got the strange feeling that there was an odd sense of mutual respect between the two. 

"Sorry about letting them get so close. I knew we were being followed ten minutes ago. I wanted them all to converge so we could kill them in one swoop," Arya said.

"Bait."

"Sorry?"

"You used me as bait," Rhaenys stated. A little cold feeling crept up her spine.

"I wouldn't let them kill you," Arya said nonchalantly. "If for no other reason than Jon would never forgive me."

"You could just let me die and not tell him," Rhaenys said, a little stubbornness creeping into her tone. Only a second later did she realize it was better not to give Arya Stark that idea if she'd proven herself so skilled with a blade. Where in the world did a Westerosi noblewoman even learn to fight like that?

Arya sighed in response, rolling her eyes. "It seems as though pigheadedness runs in the family. You and Jon are more alike than not, I think."

That took Rhaenys by surprise - she'd wondered quite a bit about what Aemon was like, but not in any true depth about what they might share in personality. She blinked as she responded. "What is he like?"

"Not now," Arya said, shaking her head. "Let's get onto the ship and I'll tell you everything you want to know about him. Wouldn't you like to leave this place?"

“I would,” Rhaenys whispered. Yes, more than anything, she would, but even hope felt painful.

The grey-eyed girl beckoned, and Rhaenys’ attempt to quell hope failed utterly. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to dream.

“Come. If you miss Westeros as much as I do, you’ll want out of here now. Especially before more of your friends show up,” she said wryly. Rhaenys followed Arya's lead, and as her savior began to walk, she trailed behind.

Soon they were at the docks. It was not very lively, but there were people – uncloaked, unmasked people, not of Asshai. When Rhaenys breathed, the salt of the sea and the tang of the docks went into her lungs. She did not care that the smell was foul. It was sweet to her, as sweet as freedom.

Then she saw where she was being led. It was a square-rigged caravel of good size, but that was not what struck her about it; the standard it bore was a grey wolf on a white field, the symbol of House Stark.

For a moment, she forgot that the Starks were the catalyst for the rebellion that had ruined her family, led to the death of her father, and resulted in so much pain and misery for her and hers. Here, a Stark was saving her, and the Wolf no longer signified death and tragedy, but liberty for her.

"This is where I leave you, Princess Rhaenys. Lady Stark. Please do take good care of yourselves. I'm sure the Prince will be eager to see you both," Moqorro said, with a small bow, as he helped load the shrouded crates onto Arya's ship.

"Thank you for everything, Moqorro," Rhaenys said. "I will not forget what you have done for me and Eliarron and Ghost."

"A word, priest," Arya said, her voice low. Moqorro drew closer.

"Lady Stark?"

"Don't send any messages to my sister Sansa, directly. If you send them to Winterfell, send them to Grand Maester Samwell Tarly. Do you know any ciphers?"

"Will the Alkindi cipher suffice?"

"No," Arya said, shaking her head. "Use Farahidi or Durayhim. Those are less known by Westerosi maesters. Any Oldtown man worth his salt will recognize Alkindi, even if he can't decipher it himself."

Rhaenys wondered where a highborn lady of House Stark had managed to learn Essosi skullduggery to this extent. Yes, she knew that ladies played the game and played it well, but it was rare that they actually had first-hand knowledge of the cloak and dagger activities that underlined the game. Nobles played it on a higher level, elevated from the grime, and the game only became visibly ugly in the masterstrokes of the players. On the ground, it was a different situation - not one that any Westerosi lady, no matter whether she worshipped old gods or new, should know.

"Understood, Lady Stark," Moqorro said. "I wish both of you farewell. May the Lord of Light guide and protect you both."

With that and a small bow, the priest walked away. Rhaenys felt a stab of sorrow at his departure. She'd come to trust Moqorro since he'd confronted her with the truth, even if his kindness to her was only a secondary consequence of his loyalty to Aemon. At the same time, however, relief poured through Rhaenys' chest as she saw Eliarron and Ghost away from danger, but the fear returned as she cast her eyes towards the Black Spire, where Drogon remained. At any moment, Drogon would wheel here, and that would be the end of that. But it didn't happen, even as Arya's ship was hastily readied. As promised, Moqorro's agents had managed to get Arya's crew back onto the ship and had even provisioned them for a long journey - not that Rhaenys was an expert, but it seemed so much that she hoped they might bypass Yi Ti on their way to Qarth.

Soon, their ship boomed off the dock with the sweeps and began to oar out of the bay, and yet still, Drogon's faint shadow remained perched on top of the Black Spire. Rhaenys watched it until Asshai was out of sight, and their sails were unfurled and the wind took them yet further away. Drogon did not come. She continued her watch, for hours and hours, until she realized that it was well past the night. She saw the sun, truly, and she breathed as the warm rays of light hit her face. She had nearly forgotten what it was like in the dark depths of Asshai.

Out here, she felt unbowed, unbent, and unbroken.

* * *

"So... you must have questions. Many, I imagine," Arya said.

Rhaenys pulled the covers over her body, as she snuggled deeper into the bed. The cloth of the bedding was surprisingly soft, and it was cool and crisp against her soft olive skin. She was in the captain's cabin, as there were no guest quarters and Arya did not intend to relinquish her to any quarters unbecoming of a woman, and so the two found themselves strange roommates indeed. The room was stocked with maps, books, and everything lay marked up. There were several trunks with multiple locks and bolts in them. Rhaenys' natural curiosity tugged at her, but a dark glance from Arya had quelled it. She heard Arya rustle, with her back turned toher, in the smaller spare bed across from her.

Truth be told, Rhaenys didn't know where to begin. Arya had left it far too freeform.

"I can tell you don't even know where to start, so I'll start for you. Jon is... honorable somehow doesn't encapsulate it. He will do the right thing the right way to a fault, every bloody time, even if it means he dies."

Rhaenys bit her lip. "About that... did he really? Moqorro said as much, but-"

"Surely you believe it, after what you've seen with Daenerys. Gods, I can't believe she's back." Rhaenys heard Arya make a noise of disgust.

"You hate her?"

Arya snorted now. "Of course I do. I was inside King's Landing when she burned the whole city to the ground. Can you even begin to imagine how many people were killed?"

"As many as would have died if Grandfather had destroyed the whole city with wildfire," Rhaenys said, darkly. The vision of Aerys Targaryen was still burned fresh into her mind's eye.

Arya turned around to face her, and she could see a modicum of surprise grace the Northwoman's face. "I'm surprised you don't need to be disabused of false notions about your family, Princess."

Rhaenys shook her head. "Rhaenys, or Rhae, if you want. Gods, I'm tired of being called Princess all the time. You're my brother's sister, and you've kindly offered your lodgings while we travel. I think that earns you the right."

Arya smirked. "So, how do you know so much about Westeros? You couldn't have been more than two when you supposedly died at the end of Robert's Rebellion"

"I was... not taught any falsehoods about the cruelty and depravity of my grandfather, Arya. On behalf of House Targaryen, I apologize for the actions of my family against yours."

"Well, I suppose you're the second Targaryen I've met that isn't all bad," Arya said with a small smile. "What do you want to know about Jon?"

With a sharp intake of breath, Rhaenys let the questions spill. "What is he like? What does he look like? Tell me everything - was his upbringing happy? Did Lord Stark treat him well? Was he a good king?"

"He's the best brother you could ask for." Arya's voice sounded much younger, all of a sudden, and much more innocent. Rhaenys could tell that Jon brought up happier memories for the girl. Perhaps they were memories of a time before Arya Stark became a prodigious killer. Aside from her curiosity about Jon, she found herself more and more intrigued by her companion. 

"Tell me some memory you have, about him," Rhaenys urged.

"Well... he gave me my sword. Had Mikken make it for me while Robert Baratheon and the Lannisters were visiting Winterfell, and after King Robert asked Father to be his Hand. I was getting ready to leave for King's Landing and Jon was preparing to go to the wall. It was the last time we saw each other for years. When he asked me if I knew what to do with Needle, I told him I just had to stick 'em with the pointy end."

Rhaenys let out an inadvertent giggle. "That seems like the basic premise, yes."

"Jon said something similar. I called it Needle because.... well, Sansa, my - our - sister, was the perfect image of a lady at the time. She was so good with needlepoint and sewing and all the boring shit ladies do, but I was always into archery. I could shoot better than most of the boys in my family - better than Bran, at any rate. Jon and Robb were never great archers, and only Theon was really better."

"These were your brothers, then? Robb, Bran, Aemon, and Theon?"

"Theon wasn't a brother, not exactly. He was a ward of my father's, a Greyjoy by birth, but... it's complicated. Theon wronged us, but then I suppose he gave his life to make up for it. After all of it, in the end... even I can't find it in myself to keep a grudge against him. Yes, he was one of us, even if he was a prat at times. He gave his life for Bran. We also had another brother, Rickon, who was just a baby at the time. Rickon died during the Battle of the Bastards. Robb died, as you probably know, betrayed by the Freys during the war. Bran was crippled by the Lannisters and became... well, I don't know exactly what. An Old God? And Jon died and was brought back to life. Sansa was sold to the highest bidder and became a toy for men playing a game. And me... _**valar morghulis.**_ "

Rhaenys jumped out of the bed. "You're... oh Gods, you're one of them. The assassins. A Faceless man." Her pulse quickened as she yanked the covers and began to back away. Her feet were cold on the rough hewn wood of the cabin, and she groped in the dark backwards until her hand found the hilt of Needle on the captain's table in the room.

"Rhae... I'm Arya Stark, of Winterfell. I'm not no one. I'm not wearing a face, and I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, that I will take you to our brother Jon." Rhaenys could not clearly see Arya's face, but there was a stark honesty to her words, and she let Needle loosen in her hand, until the tip of the sword was pointed downwards instead of in Arya's general direction.

"How can I believe you?" Rhaenys asked.

"Because if I wanted to kill you, I would have already done it."

She supposed that were true. She was fully at the girl's mercy here, and truthfully, nothing was stopping Arya from slitting her throat now. She supposed she would have to trust her. After all, she had gotten her this far. 

Rhaenys put Needle back on the table and clambered back into the bed, rearranging the covers.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"Bad experiences?" Arya asked.

"I suppose I have some stories to tell, myself, but I want to hear yours first," Rhaenys said. "Did Jon get along with you all?"

Arya smiled, facing her. "We loved him. None of us treated him as if he was our half-brother or our bastard brother - well, Sansa did, but Sansa was trying to be a perfect copycat of Mother. Robb and Jon were inseparable. Bran and Rickon worshipped the ground he walked on. And me... I was his favorite. The rest of my siblings, they had more of Mother in them. Tully looks in many ways. Robb was handsome, and he had the face of a Stark, but people always notice the coloring first. His eyes were Tully blue, and his hair was Tully auburn. Sansa looks all Tully. Me and Jon... we were the ones who looked like Starks. People always said we were Eddard and Lyanna reborn, though some people used to say there was a bit of Uncle Brandon or Uncle Benjen in Jon. I guess they were all wrong - it was Aunt Lyanna we both took after."

"So he's like me, then. Our mothers' features won out." Somehow, the thought sent a little thrill through Rhaenys. Maybe Jon would understand. "Did your mother... mistreat him?"

Arya laughed. "For the most part, but your face was a bit familiar to me when I first saw it. There's something in the nose, the set of the jaw, and the dour, serious expressions you both make that gives you away as siblings. I suppose that must be Rhaegar. As for my mother... I suppose you can't say she ever hurt him physically, but she always slighted him every chance she could, always put him out of mind and out of sight when she could. When visitors came, Jon wasn't allowed into the hall. When lords petitioned my father, Jon was sent on errands. He ate last, rose first, and worked from sun-up to sunset. If he ever bested Robb in something... well, he learned not to do it after a while. She died thinking Jon was a stain on Father's honor, a child of her husband by another woman. She never knew that she housed her trueborn nephew, a prince, in her home. It doesn't change what she did, that she never knew. Maybe it was too much to ask for her to love him, but it wasn't too much to ask that she didn't instill a perpetual sense of unworthiness in him. Gods... Jon has a true sister. He'll... I don't even know how he'll react." Rhaenys could hear her voice darken and her mood turn. "I don't even know what he'll be like when we see him," Arya said. "The way he left..."

"Why did he? Why not take the throne?" Rhaenys pressed.

"That's the bloody thing about Jon. He always feels undeserving, because of how he was raised. On top of that, Father imparted on him his personal morality - and it's good, don't get me wrong - but the idiot never deviates from it unless by some miracle, just like Father. When he said he didn't want it, he meant it. Jon felt more at home as a wildling than he ever did in the South. He found freedom beyond the Wall he'd never have in the South. I suppose that might make him a hypocrite, but Jon has been a slave to duty since the day he was born. He did his duty at home, in Winterfell - always the support, always in Robb's shadow, always careful not to embarrass the heir to Winterfell, even though I know he was better at almost everything than Robb, other than arithmetic, the horse, and the joust. He was dutiful on the wall, carrying out his vows until the day he died. And then even after he died and came back, everything he did was for others. All it got him was the opportunity to murder the woman he loved."

"He loved her?" Rhaenys felt another stab in her gut - but was it jealousy? Was it regret, for Jon? Was it sorrow? She felt an irrational burn of hatred towards Daenerys, who very well deserved hate, but for other reasons.

"Aye. He did. And she loved him back, as best I could tell, but the family aspect was an issue."

_Oh._ Would Jon spurn her as well? Not that she intended to become intimate with him in that way, but perhaps Jon was scarred by his last interaction with another Targaryen, and he'd push her away because of it as well. 

"Not in the way you think. Truth be told I don't know why it was a problem for him. It's not like Starks have shied away from cousin or avunculuar marriages - our grandparents were cousins, after all. But if Jon was Rhaegar's son - his only son, at the time, we thought - then he had the rightful claim to the throne. Daenerys was threatened by that. If you're worried that Jon will hold your family against you, I wouldn't worry," Arya said, as if reading her thoughts. "He gave two large holds - Karhold and Last Hearth - back to the children of traitors because he refused to believe that the sins of a parent should be counted against a child. I believe he'd apply a similar principle to you."

"I really want to give him his dragon. Is it strange that I'm excited to see his expression when he sees Ghost?"

Arya was quiet for a minute. "Why did you choose to name the dragon that?"

"It's not a real name, just a nickname. I think Aemon would want to name his dragon himself."

"But why?" Arya pressed.

"I'm not sure. It... it just seemed right, when I saw him. He looked like a ghost."

The other girl was quiet for a moment, and Rhaenys found herself wondering what she was thinking. After a ponderous moment, Arya broke her silence.

"Jon has a direwolf. He named it Ghost, too. You really are his sibling. Gods. he has a sister and a brother he never knew." There was a pain in her voice, and Rhaenys found it mirrored in her heart. "Fate has been cruel to him. He deserves something good in his life. Maybe you and that dragon are it." Rhaenys wasn't sure that she was the good thing that Jon deserved; perhaps he was the good thing she had been searching for, her whole life. She was going home - not as a queen, not as a princess, but as a sister. In all the ways she'd dreamed of her return, this was not one of them, but the feeling that settled inside her was far more satisfying than any dream she'd ever had.

"You can call him Jon, too, you know. He only ever used Aemon officially, and only once in my earshot, when he was executing someone. Jon was the name he grew up with."

"Jon," Rhaenys whispered back. "Arya, thank you. If you hadn't come to Asshai when you did... I don't know what would have happened. To me or to Ghost."

Arya said nothing for a while. "If Aegon and Daenerys are planning to invade Westeros, then I'm glad I did. We're going to need Jon for the war that's coming. He's never going to know peace. He'll always be fighting. I don't think there will be battles he'll ever be able to run away from."

"He won't have to face it alone," Rhaenys vowed. "If he'll have me, I'll help him."

"Even against your family?" Arya asked.

"He is my family."


	9. The Old God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets someone.

**Jon - III**

**Fifth Moon, 306 A.C.**

_To the so-called 'King beyond the Wall'_

_You are summoned to Winterfell to answer for your crimes in the presence of Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen in the North, Lady of the First Men and of the Trident. You are charged with desertion from the Night's Watch and rebellion against the Kingdom of the North by falsely laying claim to the lands beyond the Wall, which, by blood right through the First Men, belong to the Northern Crown. Give up your pretensions, come to Winterfell, present yourself to the mercy of the Queen. You have one moon from the date of this letter._

_Sansa Stark, Queen in the North_

Tyrion actually looked dumbfounded as Jon read the letter out in front of him and Tormund.

"Cersei Lannister called Robb to the south and started a war when she executed my uncle," Jon said bitterly. "And now my own sister does the same. I don't even want a bloody war with the North. Those were my people. Why would I want to endanger them just to sit in a castle that I never really had a claim to in the first place?" Why couldn't Sansa see? 

Tyrion cleared his throat before speaking. "If I may, Your Grace -"

Jon waved his hand. "Tyrion. In here, it's Jon. I won't have my advisors "your grace"-ing me, when there's no one around that needs reminding."

"Sansa learned how to play the game at the feet of Cersei. Cersei wasn't... " Tyrion chewed on words for a moment, before continuing. "She knew how to play the game and she played it well enough, but she made some fairly atrocious mistakes. She allowed Margaery Tyrell to wrest away control of her sons. She allowed Olenna Tyrell to murder Joffrey, right under her nose. She unleashed the Faith Militant on the Kingdoms. She pushed Tommen to suicide. The list goes on. My point is - Sansa is adept at the game, but she is not perfect, and she is prone to many of the same insecurities she learned from Cersei. Paranoia and fear can be powerful motivators, and they can make us act in ways out of the norm. Sansa may rationally know that you do not desire Winterfell, but women are always second-guessed in the great game, and it's conceivable that certain Northern lords would prefer a trueborn son of Lyanna Stark over a daughter of Ned Stark. Your last name might be Targaryen, but you're all Northern, all Stark where it matters, and the Manderlys, the Flints, the Reeds, and all the others - they know that. It was you out there fighting the dead while Sansa and I were cowering in the crypts, hoping not to get killed by the bones of your ancestors crawling out of their graves. It also doesn't help that those letters you sent out proclaiming your kingdom were signed by Aemon of the Houses Targaryen **_and_** Stark. You even changed your sigil. It might not sound like it to you, but you announced to all of Westeros that you're different Targaryen, both dragon and wolf. A paranoid mind could easily see that as you staking your claim to your mother's homeland."

It was Jon's turn to look dumbfounded now. "But... I don't want it. I never-"

"Yes, I'm well aware that you seem to find yourself allergic to authority and power despite the fact that both things are constantly thrust upon you, but it's not about what you want - it's about what people think. It always has been, Jon, and I think you know that well by now."

Jon didn't want to admit it, but it was true. His own thinking had turned upon those lines since he began to confront the truth about his role in Daenerys' downfall, and his rejection of his family name. Now he was stitching white dragon banners and calling himself Aemon Targaryen in official correspondence. Even the name seemed more palatable to him, though it always had been. The one Aemon he'd known personally was a man anyone should have been honored to be named after. If he was named something else - Jaehaerys, Aegon, or even Rhaegar, after his blood father - he likely would have refused to even entertain it.

"Fine. Appearances matter. Now, what do we do with this?" Jon asked.

"Why do anything? What's your sister going to do, march up here with an army?" Tormund snorted. 

"Succinctly put by Giantsbane, but yes. Sansa's forces were divided." Tyrion walked over to an oaken table with a large map of Westeros on it, and placed his hand down on the Riverlands. "The Riverlords are fighting here, and the worst of it is concentrated along Maidenpool and Antlers. The Tullys and their banners have greater numbers, but the Tullys have never been great warriors, and there are only a few competent knights and commanders among the Riverlords, so their gains have been limited. If this was the Blackfish we were talking about..."

"What about the Mallisters?" Jon asked. "I didn't know him personally, but Father - Uncle Ned - spoke highly of Lord Jason and the men of Seagard."

"It's a good thing Lord Stark didn't neglect to give you a highborn education, or else this would be a different struggle altogether. Sometimes I wonder how the Stormlords manage with Gendry Baratheon... but I digress. The amusing thing is that the Mallisters aren't actively taking part in the war, and neither the Tullys nor Sansa seem to have the ability to press Lord Jason into service. The Mallisters make up a good number of the Riverlander forces, and unlike Riverrun, Seagard didn't see too much of the war. Besides, I doubt Lord Mallister has any interest in taking new lands so far away from Seagard. Perhaps if he had a younger son, or relatives who demanded lands of their own, but he has only the one heir in Patrek Mallister. Either way, my point is that Sansa cannot bring the full might of her kingdom down on you. Half is tied up in the Riverlands, and the other half - the North - has seen the worst of the War of Five Kings as well as the War for the Dawn. The North could muster... what? Ten, twelve thousand men at most right now, without completely crippling their farmlands and towns?"

"Roundabouts," Jon said.

"They would have the numbers, aye, but we know this land better than them. We'd show 'em what a real Northerner is like here," Tormund boasted, slapping the table.

"Aye, we'd have the land to our advantage. Plus, we have warg scouts, a few giants, and..."

"And you," Tyrion interjected. "You're the greatest weapon this kingdom has. Do you think the Reeds or the Manderlys will send their full strength when Sansa calls her banners? No, because some of the Northern lords would rather you be on that seat."

"Some. Others want me dead at all costs, I imagine." Jon's thoughts immediately darted to Robett Glover. "And that goes without mentioning the Knights of the Vale."

"I doubt King Robyn Arryn will send his banners north to help in his cousin's war. He's turned out to be a fairly decent ruler, whether by his own hand or because of Yohn Royce, but wholly focused on his own domain. No... I fear something different."

"The Ironborn," Jon said. Tyrion nodded in agreement. "It's natural, I suppose. Yara's men raid up and down the coast, drawing some of our men away, while Sansa's men are free to deal with what's left of our forces if it comes to it. It's how I would do it given the circumstances," Jon said. "Divide and conquer. I think Greyjoy has wanted me dead since King's Landing. To think that Sansa would use that to forge an alliance..."

"She thinks by giving you the option to come to Winterfell, she's being merciful. I imagine she'll exile you to the Night's Watch. Is there a Night's Watch?"

"Yes. Warg scouts have confirmed that Sansa has restarted the Night's Watch. This time, with the sole purpose of keeping out the Free Folk."

Tormund snorted. "Though they have a harder time keepin' the Southerners in. They all want to come here."

"Then we need to do something about the Wall," Tyrion said.

"Aye. The problem is that the opening on the Eastwatch side has been plugged with manmade castles, which are easier to take, true, but if we move all our forces here," Jon said, gesticulating from Dragonsreach to Eastwatch, "the Northern armies can march through Castle Black or any of the other castles, and the Ironborn can sail up the Milkwater to attack here. We go anywhere along the Wall in numbers, and we leave our lands undefended. And there is no more winter here to defend us. If the Wall goes down, then it's the North that has to fear us. We could enter anywhere from the Gorge to Eastwatch. We'd be halfway to Winterfell before Sansa even realizes we've crossed."

The room was quiet for a moment, as all three struggled with that concept for a moment.

"Mance had an idea... one we all abandoned because it was too fuckin' insane," Tormund muttered. "But why not now?"

"What is it?" Jon found himself immeasurably curious. "Too insane even with the Army of the Dead at his back?"

"That's why it was insane. There's a horn. Supposed to be able to blow down the Wall."

"Well, if it were that easy..." Tyrion said, disbelievingly. "Don't get me wrong, I know better than to doubt the existence of grumpkins and snarks now, but-"

"We couldn't bloody do it because blowing down the Wall meant opening the gates to the Dead, didn't it? What would be the point then? The Southerners wouldn't have been ready and that would have been that. The idea was to put the Wall **_between_** us and the White Walkers."

"But now there's no need for it. The White Walkers are gone, aren't they?" Tyrion asked. All three men looked at each other warily.

Jon couldn't say for sure - no one could, he supposed, but winter losing its grasp on the land was a good sign. There was something different about the land beyond the Wall, too - as if a sense of oppression and bleakness had lifted. The presence of the White Walkers truly did feel gone.

"I think so," he said, after drawing in a breath. "This horn, Tormund - where is it? Don't tell me no one knows."

Tormund shrugged. "We searched every bloody cairn and tomb and burrow in this land - old First Men heroes and lords and kings. We didn't find shit other than ghosts and bones. There was one place we didn't search, though. Bad luck, that place is."

"Where?" Jon pressed.

Tormund grumbled some oath or words to ward off a curse and then muttered, "there's a cave. Underneath a weirwood tree. They say an old god used to live there, sitting on a weirwood throne."

* * *

They reached the cave a sennight later - the King beyond the Wall, Tormund, Tyrion, and two dozen warriors who had become Jon's house guard, headed by Mikkel Waters, a bastard of some knight in the Crownlands who'd been given training and was a veteran of the war. The house guard themselves were a mix - some were Southern blademasters, three were expert archers, others were champions among the Free Folk, and naturally, there was Gromnir the Warg as well. Among them was a spearwife named Val, beautiful, blonde, and buxom. She'd made no secret of the fact that she wanted Jon throughout the travel, but Jon had politely rebuffed her. It hadn't put a dent in her enthusiasm at all. 

"As gorgeous as the woman is, Jon... you are a king. Your marriage should serve some kind of purpose, other than just to create little Targaryen heirs. Speaking of, if and when you do find yourself a father to said little Targaryen heirs, would you give them Targaryen names? Or Northern ones?"

Tyrion's advice and question while riding here had given Jon some pause. It was true enough, he knew he would have to marry politically - as political a marriage could get in a fledgling kingdom like his. Even in the past, when he was but the bastard of Winterfell, he'd sometimes entertained the idea that Father would marry him off to some small house, some lady - if not under his own sigil and house, then at least to continue someone else's line, to become a part of their family. There were plenty of smaller noble houses that would not balk at adding some Stark blood into their veins, even if it came from a bastard. And abandoned holdfasts were plentiful in the North. Hells, there was even a small keep not a day's ride from Winterfell, called Brandon's Tower - Jon and Robb had dreamed that Jon would be one of Robb's landed knights there, holding the Tower and the manor and the lands around it, bringing his small levy and his own sword when called upon to fight. 

Those had been simpler days. Jon almost laughed to think that his brother had wanted to make his rightful king a lowly landed knight with a crumbling tower as his keep.

Val was attractive enough, and even Jon found himself thinking in the dark reaches of the night about her, but every time, the dream turned out the same. He would draw closer to Val, and suddenly she would become smaller, more petite, her build curvier than muscular. Her blonde hair would become silver, and her blue eyes would become violet, and Jon would hold his dagger, buried into her heart, as the ruins of the Red Keep crumbled around them.

Now, as they approached the cave as dawn broke out over the trees, bathing everything around them in a golden light, something strange tugged at his heart. He could almost feel the power of the Old Gods here - whatever lay under the hill was powerful. Atop it was a great heart tree which seemed to thrum with energy. Jon had never felt anything like it. The Old Gods seemed sedate, kind, and rested in the North, in Winterfell. They had felt calm there. Not here - here, the Old Gods ruled, and Jon could feel the magic in his Stark blood. Gromnir the Warg, no doubt himself attuned to the magic of the Children of the Forest, seemed to pick up on it.

"You're feelin' it, ain't 'ya, King Crow?" Gromnir muttered as they toured the base of the hill. "The Old Gods, the Children... this is a place a' power for 'em. Most of us shouldn't be 'ere, but it's different for 'ya. You're true blood of the First Men."

 _Not that true,_ Jon thought. He was only half First Man. The other half was from the Dragonlords of Old Valyria. But then again, the Dragonlords had their own sort of magic, didn't they? Perhaps he wasn't diluted, only strengthened.

As they rounded the hill, the ground dipped and sloped lower and lower, dipping into a small bowl-like depression at the base of the hill. This side was more craggy and rocky, and bones lay scattered about. In at the side of the hill, Jon saw, among outcroppings of rock, a small hole - enough for a full-grown man to enter with only a hint of a crouch. He inched closer to it, and it felt as if some force drew him in, like a swimmer caught in a whirlpool. The footsteps of his guard stopped behind him, and he turned around to look.

It was Tyrion who spoke first. "Your Grace... are you sure you should be heading in there? At least send the House Guard first."

"Nay," Tormund said. "This is a place only he can go to. There's somethin' about it."

"It's the magic o' the Children, an' the power of the Old Gods, Lannister," Gromnir said. "He has to do this alone. The Gods will commune only wit' 'im."

Jon didn't say anything, but he knew the Free Folk were right. This place called to him and only to him. As he drew closer, his mind's eye was filled with the vision of a crow - no, it was too large to be a crow. This was a raven, and it had three eyes...

The thought froze Jon's blood, but not his feet. He neared the entrance of the cave, and took a deep breath before plunging in.

There was nothing particularly ominous about the entrance, though there were a few ancient bones lying scattered around, as well as rusted armor and swords. It was warmer inside, surprisingly, and the cave was rather dry. It was dim but not dark, and there were some holes in the roof of the cave that allowed the dawnlight to pierce through and break the gloom.

He followed the entrance tunnel, grasping around past the knotted, ancient roots of the heart tree above until he arrived at a central chamber in the cave. The roots were thicker here, and even more knotted, hanging haphazardly around the wall. Only in the center of the cave, however, did they take some shape, in the crude facsimile of a chair, or a throne. A weirwood throne. Bones crunched all around his feet, and skulls lay everywhere. 

He sensed motion out of his left eye, and whipped around, brandishing Longclaw and pointing it in the direction of the movement. To his astonishment, a little thing - a humanoid figure, the size of a child of ten or so, melted out of the dark. He could see why he had confused it for a part of his environment. The thing's skin was nut brown, with hints of green, and its eyes were tawny. The hair was curled and tousled to look as if it was a knot of roots itself.

The thing spoke to him. "Hello," it said.

It took Jon a moment to process that it said words, and in Common tongue, too.

"Er... hello," he said, not meaning to be so informal, but somehow the words tumbled out of his mouth without the consent of his mind. "Who are you?"

It - she, he decided, given the vaguely feminine appearance - giggled. "I don't think you'll be able to pronounce my true name, but you may call me Clover." The little tinkling laugh was enough to disarm Jon, and he let Longclaw drop a bit. "Yes, good, I'm not a threat to you. Not to you, of all people."

"You know who I am?" Jon asked, the strangeness of it all still tearing at him. "You're.... you're one of them, aren't you? One of the Children of the Forest."

Clover nodded. "Yes, I am. We all know who you are. The few of us that are left, anyway." She cast a sad glance around her surroundings. "There was a group of us who lived here, waiting for a Stark of the old blood to come along. It was we who started it all with a Stark, and it was with the Starks we ended it."

Jon looked around him with confusion. "Which Stark? What is this place?" But the vision he had of the raven had already planted the answer in his mind, and he knew what the response would be.

"This is the Cave of the Three-Eyed Raven, of course," Clover responded.

"Bran's cave?"

"For a while. This is where he sought tutelage from the last incarnation - an ancestor of yours. And here you come now, with both lineages combined into one. A song of ice and fire, indeed," Clover said, half to herself. "The most recent incarnation was your cousin, Brandon Stark. The one before was Brynden Rivers, known as Bloodraven."

"Incarnations?" Jon asked. "What do you mean?"

"The Three-Eyed Raven, as I'm sure Brandon Stark has told you, is not a person. It's not even power, or a role. The Three-Eyed Raven is one of the Old Gods - one of the most powerful. He worked through Brandon Stark as he did through Bryden Bloodraven before him, to counter the White Walkers and to fix the mistake we made so very long ago."

"The Night King. The Walkers... is that what you mean, when you say this all started with the Starks?"

Clover nodded glumly. "It was our greatest mistake. We thought we were creating a weapon of war. Instead, we forged the means of our destruction, and nearly yours. The Three-Eyed Raven stepped in to make sure that it was not the end of the First Men who'd come to revere him and his kind."

"Bran said that his full powers were leaving him. That he was no longer the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Yes. Brandon Stark is and will be a powerful greenseer, but he is no longer the manifestation of the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Then where is the Three-Eyed Raven? And if you don't know where he is, can you tell me where I can find the Horn of Joramun?"

Clover opened her mouth as if to speak, but a sudden terror flashed in her eyes, and her mouth shut as quickly as it had opened. Her eyes became downcast as she decidedly avoided looking at whatever had frightened her so. Jon whipped around, reading Longclaw again, only to find an old, wizened man sitting in the weirwood throne. He wore the rags of a traveler and carried a staff in his hand. His hair was white as snow, and he had a long beard and a strangely kind face. He also only had one eye, the other covered by an eyepatch. On both of his shoulders perched ravens, and each of them also had only one eye.

"Welcome, Jon Snow, Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark. Welcome to my home."

Jon gaped at the man, but he did not lower Longclaw as he did with Clover. The Child of the Forest had been possessed of a calming spirit and aura, but this old man was not. He was not overtly hostile, but he felt unknowable, powerful, and unpredictable, like the changing of the sea. Jon could not - would not - trust him.

"Who are you?" Jon asked, trying to hide the low tremor in his voice. He was not entirely sure he succeeded, for the old man rumbled in laughter.

"I go by many names, much like you, all of which are lost to you and your people, even though you have kept diligent worship of us and our lands and trees, First Man. People have called me Allfather, others Harbard, others names that would mean nothing and less than nothing to you, for they only carry meaning in other realms. But that is not your concern or worry, so you may call me the Three-Eyed Raven, as you have." The old man's voice was a low rumble, carrying with it the thunder and rumble of a darkened storm. "You come seeking the Horn of Joramun, do you not?"

"I do," Jon managed to croak out.

"I have hidden it here, though there is no need anymore. In all his rage, my enemy forgot to search the Heart Tree above us as he thought he slew me."

"You're... an actual Old God," Jon said. There was no way this could be real. He was clearly imagining things, as he had since he saw Clover in this chamber. Surely there was some explanation - some pocket of bad air, something in the spores of the plants growing in the cave, some intoxicant or hallucinogen that could explain what was going on. But he did not feel drunk, or intoxicated, or out of his mind. Everything felt startlingly normal, and he knew he was in full command of his senses. Whatever this was, it was either real or so convincing a facsimile that even his mind was fooled.

"Correct. I worked through your brother, and before him through your ancestor Brynden. I am one of the last of my kind, one of the Old Gods with true power. I spent most of it on Brandon Stark. Now, I choose to rest. You've caught me as I planned on taking a very long nap," the old man said, his voice rumbling with laughter.

"How long?" Jon questioned.

"A few thousand mortal years, give or take. Though to me it will seem less than a half-hour. Time passes differently to the trees, and so it is the same with us Old Gods," the Three-Eyed Raven said. 

A fit of sudden anger built up in Jon. "You were there working through Bran, weren't you? Tell me, did you know what was going to happen after? Couldn't you have told me?"

The old man shook his head. "I served only to defeat the White Walkers, an unnatural blight that I could not stand because of my very nature, Aemon. I am of nature, and nature is of me. The White Walker was only death. Beyond that, the mortal realm is for you mortals to play in. What would it be like if the gods intervened at every turn? Pure chaos - sides being taken, favoritism, death, violence, and destruction. You are too young to remember this, but eons ago, in a world very much like your own, the Old Gods took sides among mortals. Dreadful business - ended with the death of an entire civilization, and there was a mess with a giant wooden horse." The old man rubbed his temples wearily. "My point is, Aemon, that we do not get involved because we create greater problems than the solutions we provide. It is a consequence of our power. I had to be very limited in how I applied mine to combat the White Walkers, which is why I worked through mortals, particularly mortals of magic blood, who were attuned to my power and able to act as conduits."

"Then why worship you at all, if you won't help fix the messes you gods leave behind?" Jon spat furiously. "Have you seen what's going on out there? It's chaos! The kingdoms know no rest. War rages continuously. You're no better than the Seven, or the Lord of Light - at least they don't exist."

The Three-Eyed Raven's countenance grew furious, and Jon took a preemptive step back, preparing himself to be smitten at any moment. "The Seven may not, but R'hllor is very much real, I can promise you that. Though deluded as he is, thinking he's the only one of us to exist... that is neither here nor there. You worship us not for great promises and divine interventions, as the followers of R'hllor or the Seven do. We are of nature. Our magic exists in small doses. A bountiful rain here, a river overflowing its banks to make fertile land, a good harvest, plentiful soil, bright skies, the changing of the seasons, and the leaves - that is our power. It is more natural. We do not demand much, only quiet contemplation, and a love for things that grow. The First Men have held fast to that, and for that, I chose to intervene to save you all from the White Walkers, and the foolishness of the Children of the Forest," he said, gesticulating freely at Clover. "And now as the last boon, I choose to give the Horn of Joramun and other things to you. Your fate is your own, Aemon Targaryen."

"Is it?" Jon challenged. "Then why was I brought back? Was that you, or the Lord of Light?"

"It was him," the Three-Eyed Raven confirmed. "He and I agreed on one thing, at least, and that was our hatred for the Great Other, the Night King. You had a role to play then. Now, I have no plans for you, nothing I wish to twist you towards. You are free."

"So I could get on a ship and sail to the ends of the earth, and that would be it? No god steering me towards battle, towards responsibility, or to a crown?" Jon muttered. "I'm supposed to believe it's that bloody easy?"

The Old God laughed at him as a teacher would laugh at a child who had asked a particularly innocent question. "My dear boy, the only thing you are a slave to now is your own conscience. I did not make you who you are, nor did R'hllor, or the Seven, or any other god. You are a product of your father and mother, of your guardian Eddard Stark, of the honor and nobility that is both inborn and nurtured in you. R'hllor may believe you his chosen, but you are who you are. Aemon Targaryen, Jon Snow, one and the same - and when you were told that you would fight battles forever, dear boy, it was not the work of any god. It is in your nature, just as knowing things and seeing things is in mine. You have responsibilities thrust upon you because someone must do it, and there are very few someones like you. When I intervened through Brandon Stark, I controlled only him. Yes, my sight allows me to bend many branches and twist many roots as one, but I cannot control how mortals react. I can only see it. That is not the same as causing it. So yes, to answer your question - you could take a ship, sail to the ends of the earth, and run away from everything that follows after you, but you will not, will you?"

"No," Jon whispered hoarsely.

"Precisely. Because it is not responsibility, duty, honor, and struggle that chases after you. It is the other way around. Life is but a struggle. Victory and defeat, life and death, these matters are not up to mortals. Mortals do not choose the time or the circumstances they are born into. All they can do is be who they are in that time. That is up to them, and up to no god. In that sense, their fate is of their own choosing. And that is what you have done, what you will continue to do, and why you will face challenges and struggles and tribulations. It is because of who you are that you will do this until your last day."

"And who am I? What is my nature?" Jon asked. 

"You are the rarest of all things, dear boy. You are a king and a servant both. Now go, leave me. I wish to begin my long rest - Clover will show you the way." The old man waved him off. Jon's eyes flickered towards Clover for the briefest second, who stood there still with the same frozen expression, and when they went back to the weirwood throne, the old man was gone.

"What- where is the Three-Eyed Raven?" Jon asked in bewilderment. "He was right... right there."

Clover unfroze, and she darted towards Jon, taking his hand in hers and tugging him away. "Come, Jon. I'll take you to the horn. Best not to think about it. I've been around for thousands of years and that particular Old God scares me to this day. Jon's mind did not want to deal with the implications of her statement about 'particular' Old Gods, and so he allowed his mind to float away as Clover led him through winding tunnels that sloped upwards. She waved her hand and a tangle of roots vanished, leading out into the open hillock at the base of the heart tree. The sun completely dawned, golden light streaming through the branches and leaves of the heart tree, warming Jon's face and unfreezing his blood.

"Here, at the base," Clover said, gesticulating at the tree. Root and tangle began to unwind, and Jon saw three things lifted up from underneath the tree.

One was no doubt the Horn of Joramun - a great silver warhorn with filigree and carved symbols in great patterns, including some familiar ones that belong to the Children of the Forest - the ubiquitous spirals adopted by the White Walkers in a mockery of their creators. It was the two other things that caught Jon by surprise.

There was a great weirwood longbow, wrapped in a black cloak. The cloak had a white dragon symbol on it, not dissimilar to Jon's, though the white dragon was depicted with red eyes and breathing ruby-colored flames. Jon recognized it immediately - it was the personal sigil of Brynden Waters, the Bloodraven, Jon's great ancestor, the bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy, half-brother to Daeron Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, Aegor Bittersteel, and Shiera Seastar. When he unwrapped the black cloak, the third item revealed itself to him in full, though he had already seen the pommel.

It was a sword, the pommel a bronze flame, with a leather wrap around the grip. The crossguard was wavy like licking flames and golden in color. A blood-red ruby was inlaid in the middle. The sword was thinner and lighter as if it was made for a more delicate swordsman, but when Jon pulled it slightly out of the scabbard, the steel was undoubtedly Valyrian, just like Jon's own Longclaw. But he knew what it was long before he saw the ripples on the Valyrian steel. He knew almost from the moment he saw the pommel. Oh, if only Arya could see this...

When Jon descended back down and around the hillock to his waiting party, it was Tyrion who spoke up first upon seeing him. His Master of Coin eyed the warhorn tied to his belt, and the weirwood bow strapped to his back, and the sword and scabbard. 

"Did you go to a magical cave, or did the tunnel transport you to the Street of Steel in King's Landing?" Tyrion quipped. "Well, I see the horn and the bow, but... the sword requires at least a little bit of explanation. You already have a fine one." He eyed Jon with a twinkle in his eye. "Don't tell me you found Brightroar under the tree."

"Close," Jon muttered.

Tyrion's smile turned to a frown. "What do you mean?"

"This sword belongs to my house. It's Dark Sister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was 100% based on Odin. Yes, there was also an allusion to Troy there. Hopefully, it wasn't too immersion-breaking.


	10. The Prince of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran picks a side.

**Bran - I**

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Lord Glover intoned.

“Meera, of the House Reed, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” replied Lord Howland Reed.

Bran wheeled himself forward. “Brandon of the House Stark, Prince of Winterfell, trueborn son of Eddard Stark. Who gives her?”

“Lord Howland Reed, her father and Lord of Greywater Watch.”

“Lady Meera, do you take this man?” Lord Glover asked.

“I take this man for this night, and all nights to come,” Meera said with a smile. Bran’s heart fluttered.

She knelt before him, with her back to him, and he reached over to unclasp her cloak, his fingers trembling slightly as they fumbled with the clasp. Her cloak came undone, and after Lord Reed had collected it, he wrapped another around her, bearing the direwolf of House Stark. Sansa had helped make it for him, and it was a fine thing.

But Sansa could not officiate, even though she was in attendance, which is why Lord Glover - for whom Bran had no particular favor - was officiating. Bran understood why, and he did not press Sansa when she had quietly excused herself from such a duty. He knew his sister would have been more than happy to, if it wasn’t for the fact that here, in her own godswood, in front of her own heart tree, she had been married off and subjected to a monster.

When the ceremony was done, and the feasting was taking place inside, Sansa allowed her Northern lords to get well drunk. Bran braced himself. He knew she had intended to use this wedding for more than one purpose, but it felt deeply wrong to him that his occasion of happiness - one he wished Jon and Arya were here to witness - was to be used for other reasons, particularly this reason.

“My Lords!” proclaimed Sansa, above the din of the feast.

“The Queen in the North!” returned the cry. Some of the bannermen were louder than others, Bran noticed, and it had very little to do with proximity. Ever quarrelsome Lord Glover had been richly rewarded with lands vacated by extinct houses. Sansa had rewarded the mountain clans greatly, as well - second sons and third sons had been given marriages and lands, with great swathes in the northern half of the kingdom left empty by the inexorable march of the Army of the Dead. The Umbers were gone, the Karstarks were gone, along with a host of minor houses. Lady Barbrey Dustin had died a month after the sack of King’s Landing of a fever, and a minor Dustin from a cadet branch, a Karlon Dustin, had been elevated to the lordship of Barrow Hall in Barrowton.

These were all men that had benefitted from Sansa’s rule. They had obtained castles, lands, riches, and titles. They all owed something to Sansa.

But Bran had spent enough time outside of the numbing grip of the Three-Eyed Raven to know and care that there were certainly lords in the North who did not care for Sansa. That was the only unifying factor among them. Each had different ideas on who should rule the North; some, he knew, even wanted him to be King.

And then there was a curious lot, a loyal bunch, who had not forgotten the oath they had sworn to the son of Lyanna Stark, the White Wolf, the Dragon of the North – even if they had not known he was a dragon. Bran did not think it mattered, to them. For some, he knew, the fact that Jon was trueborn and the son of Lyanna only enhanced his appeal. In this group were Lord Manderly, Lord Larence Hornwood – formerly Snow, but Jon had granted him his name and his accompanying hall after the Great War, and he suspected, his now goodfather and wife. Others included Lord Asher Forrester of Ironrath and his wife, Lady Gwyn Whitehill, as well as the houses in Lord Manderly's orbit, such as Locke and Woolfield. Some of them wished to see him retake his crown.

But of course, Bran knew, despite the raven they had all received from the new King beyond the Wall, Jon was likely more content to rule in his own new kingdom than to come and take away something from Sansa, even if Sansa had maneuvered herself to pick up the pieces of his loss in the first place.

Sansa, on the other hand, could not abide the new King beyond the Wall.

“We are here today to celebrate my brother’s wedding feast,” Sansa said. “The North has been tested as of late, but we have come out stronger than ever before.” Loud cheers graced her words.

“We have vanquished lions, flayed men, krakens, and even dragons.” Another round of cheers went up, but Bran noticed a few disquieted grumbles, especially from the faction that favored Jon. Next to Sansa, Bran saw Samwell Tarly fidget with his hands, no doubt sensing the barb towards Jon.

“Today, we celebrate the beginning of a new family, a new scion of the Starks. My brother Brandon weds his lovely lady wife, Lady Meera of Greywater Watch. I name Prince Brandon as my heir, and if I should have no children of my own, then any children of his union shall inherit as Starks of Winterfell.” Cheers for this were much more muted – no doubt they expected that Brandon as a cripple could not father children. He suppressed a tiny smirk as his eyes flitted to meet Meera’s, and she unconsciously touched her belly.

Much of the North was to be in for a surprise in seven months.

“But now, there is a threat to our independent kingdom, and it does not come from the south, but rather the North. My cousin, Jon Snow, has proclaimed himself a King beyond the Wall. He threatens our Kingdom with fire and blood, like his kin Daenerys Targaryen did.”

Bran tried not to frown. Whatever else Daenerys Targaryen had done, she had saved the North – indeed, all Westeros – from the dead. For that, if nothing else, she deserved some credit, no matter what had happened after. And Jon, on the other hand, had done nothing but sacrifice for people.

“I call all my loyal banners. We shall march north, in force, and make sure that this King beyond the Wall never threatens our homes. We will re-establish the Night’s Watch by taking the unwanted and the criminals of the South and giving them a new purpose in guarding the realms of men.”

“Pardon me, Your Grace.” The hall quietened as Lord Manderly stood tall and proud, staring Sansa down. “But with the defeat of the White Walkers and the end of the Long Night, there is a realm of men beyond the Wall now, too.”

Bran watched Sansa glare hatefully at the fat lord. “Wildlings are hardly men and women like us, my lord. Their way of life is little but reaping, reaving, and pillaging.”

“Not unlike the Ironborn you have allied our kingdom with,” Lord Manderly pointed out. At this, the hall grumbled. Even among Sansa’s supporters, Bran knew, the partnership with the Ironborn was a point of contention. If the bannermen knew that Sansa was allowing Yara Greyjoy to use Bear Island as a staging point for Ironborn incursions into the Kingdom beyond the Wall, they would certainly revolt. “The difference is,” droned the fat lord, “that the wildlings fought and bled for our home, and the Ironborn, with the exception of Theon Greyjoy, did not. They were busy chasing after their precious fleet for their dragon queen.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Manderly,” snarled Robett Glover, pounding his fist on his table. “Your seat is far south and safe from the Ironborn and from the Wildlings both. Deepwood Motte has stood against many enemies from both north and from the sea. We know what it is to have the Ironborn and the Wildling as our neighbors. I hate the squids,” he proclaimed, “but they’re men like us. The Wildlings are not. And the Wildlings led by that traitor dragon Jon Snow are even worse. He gave the North away to his dragon kin. If he’ll get the chance, he’ll take the throne again.”

 _I don’t think Lord Manderly would particularly care if that were the case,_ Bran thought drily.

“My lords, I did not fight for the independence of our realm simply to surrender it to foreign invaders. Whatever services Jon Snow has rendered to the North, they do not override the fact that he is now a foreigner with foreign forces, in betrayal of the terms of his exile to serve in the Night's Watch. I say this to you – Jon Snow will bend the knee and take the black, or pay the price.”

* * *

“What the bloody hell was that all about?”

Sansa stared at him almost mutely, as if she had not expected such an outburst at all. And perhaps she hadn’t – while Bran had certainly changed since the Three Eyed Raven was no longer freezing out his emotions, others had not quite come to terms with Bran’s sudden effusiveness, and anger was certainly unheard of.

But now, Brandon Stark was incensed. “What were you thinking, Sansa? You mean to start a war with Jon?”

“I didn’t start a war, Bran. Jon started it when he couldn’t stay put at the Wall. He chose to found his own kingdom, and he chose to-“

“To what? He hasn’t invaded the North. He hasn’t even threatened it. He sent you one letter, Sansa, one letter in which all he said was that he would defend the sovereignty of his kingdom. He invited trade and relations. You could have gone to visit him, gone to mend your relationship, monarch to monarch. You could have offered to help their kingdom grow and they could have become valuable trade partners, but no. You want war with him instead.”

Bran could feel Meera’s eyes boring into him.

“Your Grace, I have to agree with my lord husband,” Meera said, cautiously. “Jon Snow is a capable warrior and tactician. He is also your kin. He could be a useful ally to have at your back should war ever come to your walls.”

“Or he could be a dagger to my back,” countered Sansa. "I do not mean to have Jon killed. I simply want him to return to his post along the Wall."

“He’s our brother, Sansa, no matter who his parents were. What would Father say if he saw us now?”

Sansa stared at him coldly. “Father let his emotions cloud his judgment too often. It got him killed.”

Bran shook his head and began to wheel himself away, sensing the unworded dismissal in Sansa’s words. As he approached the door, Meera by his side, he couldn’t help but stop and face Sansa once more.

“As I recall, your judgment had something to do with Father’s death, too,” Bran said. For a moment, the ice that crept through his veins reminded him of the grip of the Three-Eyed Raven.

* * *

“Bran, wake up.”

Brandon Stark jolted awake, his memory stirring. He had dreamt again, the same dream as before. The early rays of dawn pierced into the bedroom.

Meera peered at him, her doe brown eyes crinkling as she observed him in the light of day. The covers rustled around them as her hand rested on his chest, and her lithe form pressed against him, only a thin nightgown separating her skin from his. She left soft kisses on his shoulder.

“Good morning, my lord husband,” she whispered. _Gods,_ Bran thought, _that was wonderful to hear. I hope I shall hear it for the rest of my days._

“Good morning, my lady wife,” Bran said in return, a small smile gracing his features. “Though I suppose now with our wedding festivities at an end, Sansa will push the banners to assemble.”

“Many are already here,” Meera said, running her finger in a circle on Bran’s shoulder lazily. “I suppose our wedding was a pretext to gather the lords. Only some of the houses north of Winterfell haven’t come, and I suspect Sansa will collect them and their men along the way.

Bran used his hands to push himself upright, resting against the headboard of the bed. “Sansa really means to go through with it.”

“It’s absolutely unnecessary. Jon Snow won’t march south unless his people are threatened. From all you’ve told me about him, he wouldn’t just steal a crown from Sansa.”

“Never mind that Sansa stole that crown from him in the first place,” Bran added darkly. “It’s not just that, though, Meera.”

“I know, Bran. The dreams. Did you have it again?”

“Always,” Bran said, shaking his head. “I dreamed of Arya for the first time, too. I think she’s coming home.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Meera said.

“She’s not coming alone,” Bran added cryptically. Meera’s brow furrowed and a troubled expression overcame her features.

A knock interrupted their conversation. Bran and Meera exchanged glances.

“Prince Brandon? Lady Meera? I’m sorry to bother you this early in the morning,” said Samwell Tarly, his already-gentle voice further muffled from behind the door.

“I’ve got it,” Meera whispered, pulling some furs over her nightgown and marching to the door. She opened it and the large maester stepped hesitantly into the room.

“Lady, my Prince.”

“Grand Maester, how can I help you?” Bran asked quizzically.

Sam’s eyes flickered to the open door, and Meera closed it gently behind. Sam’s shoulder seemed to droop and his shoulder sagged, some weight evidently lifted by Meera’s act.

“Bran, I think the Queen is having me followed,” he said tensely. “I know some of my ravens are being intercepted. My mother said one of my letters arrived unsealed. I haven’t dared send a raven to Jon in three moons, and even before that my messages were only about generalities and asking him how he was doing. I think the Queen suspects me of betrayal.”

“And do you intend to betray my sister?” Bran asked wryly.

Sam’s shoulders sagged further. “No. I don’t have it in me, as little as I want to go to war with my best friend. But I couldn’t betray my vows.” A weak smile graced his cherubic face. “Somehow I think Jon would be angry if I did betray Sansa. He’s like that, with his honor.”

“The honor a king should have,” Meera said flatly.

“Treason, my lady,” Bran said teasingly. “But Meera has the right of it, Sam. Sansa learned to rule at the feet of Cersei and Littlefinger. Her reign will be marked with a court of shadows, and a web of lies. She’s only concerned with maintaining power, and not being at anyone’s mercy. Any positive changes would only be incidental. It’s not her fault she’s that way after what Joffrey, Cersei, Baelish, and Ramsay Bolton put her through, but she’s plunged the Riverlands into war for the Crownlands, and she now plans to fight a war with her own brother.”

“Should we let Jon know?” Sam asked pleadingly. “He’ll have ten thousand men at his gates soon enough.”

Bran shook his head. “I don’t know if there’s a way to get a message to him. Does your father have anyone he trusts?”

Meera nodded. “There are a few crannogmen who’ve made trips beyond the Wall. Good scouts. One I know is here.”

“Good. I’ll draw up the message and we’ll send it with your man under cover of night, tonight,” Bran said. “Sam, watch yourself. Make sure you are loyal to my sister, and publicly so. Don’t give her reasons to doubt you where there aren’t any and let me and Lady Meera handle it.”

“I’m very grateful,” Sam said. “I’ve been worried sick about Little Sam and Gilly. If something happens to me… well, that’s one thing. But my family…”

“I don’t think Sansa is so far gone, Sam, but either way you should take care. Please give Gilly and Little Sam our love.”

“My prince,” Sam said with a short bow. He took Meera’s hand and kissed it. “My lady. Your confidence and assistance are deeply appreciated.” With a grateful smile, the Grand Maester left, leaving Bran and Meera greatly troubled.

“Sansa must suspect him of passing along messages to Jon,” Meera muttered.

“Not that Jon is one for any sort of cloak-and-dagger,” Bran remarked. “But we at least can use today to gather information.”

* * *

When the large column of men was sighted coming from the Kingsroad from the south, Bran was glad that he had decided to wait until nighttime to send his message. He was also deeply concerned for Jon, now.

Men in battle gear and supply carts and a train of camp followers, squires, and smallfolk marched towards Winterfell. For a sickening moment, Bran thought perhaps Sansa had recalled some Tully forces or that cousin Robyn had decided to support their war. But the column, sizeable as it was, would not have represented the whole of the Tully or Arryn armies. It was perhaps three thousand men, most of whom were peasant levies, but there were also quite a few mounted men-at-arms and Knights of the Vale scattered in their ranks. They bore a sigil that was unfamiliar to Bran, until he broke it down to its constituent parts – quartered, with the arms of House Arryn on the second and fourth quarters, with House Waynwood in the third. He did not entirely recognize the first quarter by appearance alone, but the rest of the sigil gave it away.

Sansa had clearly been expecting him. The courtyard had been refurbished and prepared overnight, and as the leading knight marched into the courtyard and paid homage to the Queen, Bran marked the man. He was handsome, almost irritatingly so; with sandy blonde hair, eyes nearly as blue as a wight’s, and with an easy, charming smile. His bearing was regal, and he was fit of body, straight-backed, tall, and muscular.

Harrold Hardyng, the Young Falcon, had come.


	11. Krakenbane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon pays a visit to Bear Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know y'all are getting antsy for Rhae and Jon to meet. All I have to say about that is...
> 
> soon. 
> 
> In the meantime though, enjoy some BAMF Jon Snow.

**Jon – IV**

“Well, no one will ever confuse it for the Iron Fleet, but it’ll do,” Tyrion said, running his hand over the railing of the ship. It wasn’t large, and it wasn’t a warship, but the longship would do what it was meant to.

“You’ll look after the place in my stead?” Jon asked.

“I think I’ll manage not to make a mess of things. Can’t be harder than ruling the Westerlands, can it?”

Jon smiled. “How long did it take you to lose control of that?”

“About ten moons. So, get back here before the allotted time and we won’t have any troubles, Your Grace,” the Master of Coin said, as a jape.

“Try not to muck it up, Lannister.”

“Try not to get killed, Targaryen.” The men shook hands and Jon watched Tyrion depart from the pier.

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the chilly salt spray of the ocean waft up and into his nose, filling all his senses with the sea. He opened his eyes and gazed out across the pier.

A small flotilla stood out in the Bay of Ice – _which probably needs a new name,_ Jon thought, _now that it’s no longer so icy –_ and scores of men were being rowed aboard from the pier. Only Jon’s own longship, which he had named _Rhaegal’s Roar_ , was at the pier.

Behind him was a small village that had now grown into a small port town, growing prosperous from trade with the different holds along the Bay of Ice. Nominally, Sansa had ordered the North not to trade with the Kingdom beyond the Wall, but with no navy to enforce it, trade happened anyway. Jon assumed Sansa could not risk her bannermen knowing just how involved she was with the Greyjoys, for fear of losing the allegiance of some of the coastal lords, and that was one of the great anchors of his strategy.

If it all worked out, Jon would buy time and destroy the Ironborn war effort, and manage to sow dissent among Sansa’s ranks in one move. It was Tyrion who had suggested the strategy, and Jon had largely agreed with it. He certainly hoped his Master of Coin’s advice was better than the advice he’d given Dany as Lord Hand.

The thought of it made Jon miss old, dependable Davos Seaworth, who he knew from Sam’s ravens to now be Hand to Gendry. If not with him, he supposed, Gendry was as good a lord to serve as any.

Behind him, Cliffharbor – Jon’s subjects not being particularly inventive with the names – was built into and along the cliffs of the Gorge, past the Bridge of Skulls and adjacent to Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, which Jon’s soldiers had captured and cleared of Ironborn guards. People scurried along the pier, loading trunks and barrels full of provisions and supplies onto the ship. Tormund, who was already on deck, glanced at him, motioning with his head for Jon to come aboard.

They met at mid-deck. Jon glanced behind Tormund’s shoulders, watching his troops and sailors get aboard. Tormund made a grunt of disapproval.

“You’re not a big proponent of sailing,” Jon remarked. If truth be told, neither was he, but Tormund looked significantly more discomfited, and _Rhaegal’s Roar_ had not yet left the pier.

“Men belong on land. If the gods wanted us to swim, we’d have scales and flappers,” the man muttered.

“Be that as it may, Bear Island is not that far from here. We should be there within a fortnight if the winds continue to remain favorable.”

“Remind me to strangle the half-man for this bloody-arsed idiot idea of his,” Tormund grumbled, settling in aboard the ship.

“If we make it back in one piece, I think Tyrion will probably let you,” Jon said.

* * *

The journey there was miserable – more so for Tormund than for Jon, but it had taken him some time to find his sea legs too. Until then, he was hurling over the side of the ship often enough, but so were many of his men. Jon assigned much of the sailing duties to former Southerners and the few Free Folk who’d grown up along the sea and were at least somewhat knowledgeable about a boat. Even as he suffered, he made sure to laugh about it with his men, talking to them during the trip, making sure their spirits were whole.

When they arrived near Bear Island, early in the morn, they almost did not see the place for the fog that was billowing off the island and all around it. Much of the island was surrounded by rocky cliffs and shores, not suitable for landing, but he knew from his previous visit that there were two bays that could be used – one on the southern, more populated side of the isle, and a nearly abandoned one at the north side that only raiders from the Free Folk knew from their reaving days. Luckily for Jon, he had some of those reavers on his craft, and they were able to guide his flotilla into the bay without a single Kraken sail appearing in sight. The little bay was surrounded, like a large cove, and it was well hidden from prying eyes – with the way the rocks were by the entrance unless one sailed just the right way between them, one wouldn’t know they were there.

The little flotilla disembarked, about six hundred men in all – a little less than a sixth of Jon’s entire army. The men were grim-faced and ready for war, and Jon strode through the ranks, speaking to his sergeants and veterans, sharing words of camaraderie with them, and with the fresh, green men and boys, with whom he shared words of bravery and encouragement. They would need it for what lay ahead.

The warband marched through the forest silently, picking their way across roots and branches heading in a southward direction, to where Jon knew the old seat of House Mormont lay. The island made him deeply sad inside, as he thought of Lyanna Mormont’s mangled corpse in Winterfell.

Lyanna the Giantslayer, the last of the Mormonts. She deserved a better fate, but if Jon could make it so, at least she would always be remembered in song. Brave, wonderful, loyal, fierce Lyanna. To the last, the Mormonts he had known had all been honorable. The Lord Commander, who’d given him Longclaw; Ser Jorah, who had defended his queen until his dying breath and found his honor along the way, and Lyanna, who knew no king but the King in the North, whose name was Stark.

The North would rage when they found out how Sansa had defiled the memory of House Mormont.

As they marched, Jon was accompanied by Tormund, as well as a younger lad of perhaps eighteen namedays, named Bjornir. Bjornir was a tall, strapping lad from the Frozen Shore, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, and he wielded an axe and a shield like a man possessed. Jon had seen him fight alongside him when they had ambushed the Drumm reavers along the Gorge, and he had earned his place by Jon’s side, almost as a squire, though Jon was no knight.

They came across small abandoned hamlets – four or five thatched huts each, burned out, with charred corpses strewn about. Jon picked through them with his men, but there was nothing left of supplies. The Ironborn had picked every house clean. Jon cursed them and Yara Greyjoy most of all, burning with fury. He would exact every ounce of justice from the Ironborn when he got the chance.

They passed by Mormont Keep, and it was full of death, too. Whatever smallfolk had lived on the island were dead. Though Bear Island was never heavily populated, if all of the people here were dead, that was still some thousand innocents who were dead because of Yara's grudge and Sansa's foolishness. The same fury darkened and congealed into something ugly inside Jon, but he pushed it aside for now, letting his tactician's mind work. It must have lain in ruin and abandon here as there was was little use in holding the location if the Ironborn intended to use Bear Island as a staging ground for their forays beyond the Wall – the keep was too far inland, too removed from the southern bay that the Ironborn ships would be docked at. The scouts Jon sent reported nothing – the Ironborn had not even bothered to put up flags or sigils around the keep. Instead, it was home to nothing more than ghosts and rats.

They made camp there for the rest of the day, burying bodies and intending to push further south at dawn the next day. Jon posted scouts all along the walls of the keep, at the cliffsides, and even at the base of the waterfall that cascaded down a cliffside nearby, but the night passed eventless. Jon was shocked at how lax the Ironborn were, not bothering to establish outposts on the island, but then he realized that they had no expectation of an attack, no belief that anyone would sail out here and challenge them. To the world, Bear Island was uninhabited until Sansa gave it to someone.

They left before dawn, and the sun had not yet begun to peek through the clouds when they found the Ironborn camp. They had built a large makeshift dock and camp at the mouth of the bay. The area was massive, strewn with tents, barrels, crates, and all manner of supply and provision. No doubt hundreds of Ironborn lay resting below. There was only a nominal guard around the camp and a rickety palisade that surrounded it. There was one main entrance, but the cliffs that overlooked the camp allowed for stealthy entrances from at least three different points directly into the camp. The Ironborn, in their arrogance, had not even bothered to set up outposts at the top to watch their rear.

Kraken banners flew above the camp, as did others that Jon recognized from his boyhood lessons – Harlaw, Drumm, Blacktyde, Botley, among others. Wherever Yara Greyjoy planned to land her forces, she was planning on coming with numbers. If Jon could cut off her supplies here, he would cripple her invasion before it even began.

Jon’s forces crept down the cliffside paths, inching their way into the camps. Tormund led one party, while another was led by Gromnir the warg. Each party had a warg assigned to them, and Jon had established a system of communication between them, giving them the ability to communicate over long distances during battle quickly. With the wargs, Jon and his men coordinated their attacks.

They overcame the outer defenses quickly, taking over what little there was in the way of watchtower or guard, and with it, they gained access to fire, as they were unable to bring it down the cliffside without risking rousing the suspicion of the Ironborn. The men lit torches and passed them around, and the streamed into the camp with loud war cries, Jon leading the way, as they set fire to barrel, crate, and tent.

What they would call later the Battle of Bear's Bay was not truly a battle, but a slaughter. The Ironborn were caught unawares, many of the men still asleep. The Ironborn burned inside their tents or died suffocated from the smoke that was raised. The ones who made it out of their tents in time weren't clothed or armored, wielding only fists or their weapons if they were lucky to get their hands on them. Jon stabbed, hacked, and sliced his way through a score of men, among them a Harlaw and a Blacktyde that he recognized only from the sigil of their tents.

The slaughter carried on as red dawn peeked over the horizon, and the world seemed abathe in fire and blood. Jon's men carried high the white dragon banner that had become his sigil, wore it on their chests, and cried "Targaryen! King Jon, King Aemon!" as they swept the Ironborn back into the sea. As Jon raged through the camp, he caught sight of what he'd hoped.

A large black tent with yellow fringe, with a large Kraken banner flying above, graced his sight. Leaving it, surrounded by her armed guard, was Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands. Jon and his guard cut their way through Ironborn after Ironborn, making their way towards Yara, who herself was fleeing towards the bay and to her ship, where some of her men were already furiously preparing her galley. Some of the ironborn and their ships would escape, but not all. Flaming arrows streamed from overhead, where Jon's men took shots at the ships resting in the bay. The ironborn ships began to catch fire, and the flames spread from ship to ship as this vanguard of the Iron Fleet was burned. 

Jon and his men were able to catch up with Yara's guard, and the two monarchs exchanged hateful glares as the Greyjoy men tried to usher their Queen to her ship. Bjornir opened the festivities by burying his axe in some Botley squire's skull, spilling open its contents as the man died slumping backward onto the stony beach. Some of the Greyjoy guards stayed behind to fend off Jon's onslaught, while others continued to whisk Yara away.

"Stay and fight me, Greyjoy!" Jon snarled. "Come threaten my people and my lands again and I'll burn the rest of your iron fleet and your iron islands." His voice became almost unrecognizable to him as if he'd become a feral monster, consumed by bloodlust - like a wild dragon, or a wild direwolf. "I'll salt your lands and burn your forests. My price is fire and blood, not iron, Greyjoy!"

Fire and blood is exactly what he had exacted from the Ironborn here. Yara did not intend to stay around and pay that price herself, as she boarded her ship, shouting a string of toothless obscenities and threats back at Jon, as she was out of reach - but not for lack of trying. Bjornir flung a handaxe through the air and it cleaved the face of the man standing right next to Yara, even as the sails fell from the mast and the Ironborn began to row her ship out of the bay. There had been forty ships of varying size in the bay - only four galleys and three longships made it out. The rest were burned, and the Ironborn lay dead in droves. Jon's men shouted loudly, bestowing upon him a new moniker - King Aemon the Krakenbane.

After the battle was fully over, Jon had Tormund and Gromnir's parties set about counting the dead. Jon's forces had only lost seventeen men - seventeen out of six hundred. The number astounded Jon as the adrenaline rush of battle wore off, revealing the ache in his legs and the tiredness of his arms, which hung loose against him. He cast of much of his armor, retaining only the leather, and he discarded the heavy furs he had worn. The Ironborn dead number was even more staggering - eight hundred, among which were at least ten highborns - two Botleys, one Harlaw, one Drumm, one Blacktyde, and others from smaller houses. Jon sent half his men back to the north bay to bring the flotilla around to the south, and to take the supplies that they could. He ordered his men to burn what they couldn't take, and set about collecting ironborn weapons, sigils, and heads for the next step in Jon's plan.

Again, the ghost of Lyanna Mormont floated in his mind's eye. No, he could not abandon Bear Island like this, not to the fate it had received. Sansa was a fool, and she had dishonored the memory of the Mormonts who'd given their lives in defense of the North and of men. She was not a fit ruler of it.

"Bjornir, to me," Jon commanded. The young man, who made good account of himself again in the battle, would do. He came trotting over, and Tormund ambled around to Jon's side. A gathering of the remaining men stopped what they were doing and turned to look.

"What do you command, King Jon?" the boy asked, his voice rough and ragged like sand.

"Bear Island used to belong to a family I knew and loved. The old bear was like another father to me. Ser Jorah was a brave knight who died defending a queen. And then there was a little she-bear named Lyanna Mormont, the Giantslayer. This island has bred some of the greatest warriors and people I have come to know. It does not belong in my sister's hands. She would not do it justice." His eyes scanned the crowd, and settled on Bjornir.

"Come, Bjornir. There is a heart tree not far from here."

When they arrived at the heart tree, Jon stopped. A great number of his men had followed them out to the weirwood grove, no doubt curious as to what exactly was going on. All of the Free Folk came to the grove reverently, as did some of the converted former Southerners, though the ones who remained true to the Seven whispered among themselves, no doubt marveling at yet another place where the old gods held sway.

Jon had never been zealous, but he had always sought comfort from the old gods. Now that he had met one, he wasn't sure that he was comforted anymore, but he did not come here seeking comfort. He wanted a witness.

"I have never asked the Free Folk to kneel to me. Even when you made me your king, you did not kneel. It is not in your nature to kneel to men," Jon said commandingly. Loud cheers went up from among the Free Folk.

"But though you do not kneel to me, you kneel in front of our gods, the old gods, do you not?"

"Aye," Tormund barked. "Only the gods deserve it."

"Then kneel in front of the heart tree, Bjornir," Jon commanded. The youth looked confused, though he complied, but some of the former southerners began to understand exactly what was transpiring and let out whoops. Bjornir was popular with the men, Free Folk and former Southerners alike.

"Do you swear, in front of the gods, Bjornir, that you and yours will serve me and mine from this day until the last day of your house?"

A light of recognition flickered in Bjornir's eyes, but he began to stutter. "I- King Jon, I-"

"Do you swear it?" Jon barked.

"I do!" shouted back the boy at first, then again in a solemn tone. "I swear it, King, that me and my blood will be sworn to you and yours from our first day to our last. We'll know no king other than the King beyond the Wall, the Dragon of the North. A ghost of a smile flickered on Jon's face at Bjornir's unwitting echo of Lyanna Mormont's words.

"Then I, Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of my Name, accept your loyalty and fealty. I name you Bjornir, Lord and Chief of Bear Island. You shall have a House, with a name and words, with a maester and a hall. You will hold this land for me from now into posterity so long as you and your blood hold true to your oath. Rise, Lord of Bear Island. Rise in the eyes of gods and men."

* * *

In keeping with the usual Free Folk inability to name creatively, the new Lord of Bear Island eventually settled on the house name Magnar, which Jon knew meant 'lord' in the Old Tongue. Back on their ships, now laden with the prizes of battle, Jon prodded at him with japes about picking house words, but the boy seemed overwhelmed at the idea. Jon laughed about it, as did Tormund, who insisted that the new Lord Magnar find a southern lady and give her the lord's kiss, which he said Jon could show him. Jon laughed it off, but internally he darkened at the thought of his past loves, both of whom had met their ends in his arms.

Ygritte was a rare visitor in his dreams, but Daenerys still came every night. Not even Tormund knew about it, though Tyrion in his usual manner had figured it out. They had a long drunken discussion one night about what had happened after the Great War, after the defeat of the Night King, and their own parts in the madness and demise of Daenerys Targaryen. They had made their peace with each other, both men who had wanted to serve their queen, and both men who had failed her, even though it did not absolve Daenerys of her slaughter at King's Landing. But they could not make peace with themselves. It was probably not as terrible for Tyrion, but Jon had killed his lover, his kin. He dreamt of her every night, and the embrace of her cold corpse and her dead lips moving as she asked why she was killed.

And each time in his dreams, Jon could only say that it was because he had failed to help her, to make her feel less lonesome, to give her a hand before she fell off the cliff and into insanity.

They did not sail back beyond the Wall, but instead to the foothills that lay across the Bay of Ice, where the mountain clans resided. They landed ashore a sennight after their battle, and Jon and fifty men took banners and heads up into the foothills and to the gates of Bucket Hall, where House Wull reigned. They opened their gates for their former king, as many of the mountain clans had sought shelter in Winterfell from the march of the dead, and Wulls, Norreys, and Harclays had all fought in the Great War, including Hugo Wull, who now stood before Jon. He had not changed much since Jon had met him first, though he appeared even bulkier than before. It was commonly japed by some that Big Bucket Wull had the largest belly in all the North, while others would jape back that Lord Manderly had him beat there. He was a towering man, with a bushy beard and a nose that was squashed and misplaced from too much brawling, but he nodded in respect at Jon as he greeted him at the gate.

"What brings you here, the Jon, of the Targaryens?" the man rumbled.

Jon wanted to laugh. He'd heard Aemon Targaryen, or Jon Snow, but it was rare that people ever mixed his common first name with his true last name. It had a certain ring to it, he supposed.

"Not Jon Snow?" Jon shot back.

"Nay. No son of the Lyanna will be called bastard like that from me," the old mountain lord said solemnly. Jon's heart was warmed at the loyalty his maternal family had inspired in their bannermen once. Between Robb, the Boltons, himself, and Sansa, it seemed that they had managed to squander most of it, and it was only the ghost of Rickard Stark's children that kept respect in the tongues of the Northerners. "What brings you here?"

"I come bearing news," Jon said. "Bear Island was overrun with Ironborn. They were using it as a base to launch an invasion of my kingdom. I believe they were doing it with the knowledge of my sister Sansa, though I expect she'll deny it." He nodded at his men, who dropped the bloodied sigils of the Ironborn houses at the feet of the Wull, and showed him some of the Ironborn heads. "All the smallfolk are dead. The Iron Queen was there," Jon added. "Nearly killed her, but she managed to get away. We slaughtered nearly a thousand Ironborn on the island."

The Wull seemed to stare at the sigils at his feet for an eternity before he spat on them. "Fuck the Ironborn," he declared. "And thank you, the Jon. Only good Ironborn is a dead one."

"No need for thanks, Lord Wull," Jon said, holding up a hand. "All I ask is that you spread the word among my sister's bannermen."

The Wull seemed to chew on that for a moment before he responded. "The Sansa is coming north. All the banners are supposed to meet her on the Kingsroad."

"Will you go?" Jon asked.

"Aye. If only to show them the flags of dead squids and to tell them what kind of queen the Sansa is." 

"That is all I ask. Farewell, Lord Wull. Perhaps we shall see each other soon," Jon said, dipping his head in respect to the old mountain clansman and leaving with his retinue.

* * *

When they arrived back beyond the Wall, Jon ordered his men under the command of the new Lord Magnar and Gromnir the warg to march to Forkton. From Cliffharbor he had ravens sent to every town in the kingdom, ordering each chief, leader, elder, and town council to send their fighting levies to Forkton by order of the king, as war was coming to them. When he arrived back at Dragonsreach by traveling up the Milkwater, the town was in a hubbub. Tyrion had organized the town levy, now six hundred men strong, and greeted him when he arrived at the keep, which had become even more stone and less wood under the Master of Coin's guidance.

"I see you didn't muck it up, Lannister," Jon said with a lopsided smile as he surveyed the changes to his own keep from the window of his solar. Tyrion poured them both cups of wine, and the two men sat and drank together.

"Yes, well, you are looking at one of the finest urban planners in Westeros," Tyrion said drily. "I specialize in sewage systems, for which I have incidentally drawn up plans..."

"That's all well and good, Tyrion, but we have a war to fight. I leave tomorrow, and I'll need you by my side while we campaign. The Ironborn have been dealt with, but Sansa remains."

"Ah, yes, my dear lady wife. You know, I still don't think we ever got that annulment," Tyrion japed. "Perhaps I could negotiate my way into another crown?"

"I'm sure Stark bannermen will be perfectly content with a Lannister king ruling over them," Jon said, his serious tone not betraying his sarcasm. "If you only managed to last ten moons in a kingdom where your family's name is gold, I'm sure you'll last in a kingdom where their name is shite."

"Point taken," Tyrion said. "Also, I hear that you've claimed Bear Island for your own. Plan on expanding the kingdom, then?"

Jon sighed and tapped his foot on the stone. "I don't know, Tyrion. I never wanted to rule the North, not really. You know I became king because I thought it gave us our best chance at fighting the White Walkers. But you didn't see what happened on Bear Island, Tyrion. Sansa's rule is going to ruin the North. She's not interested in being a good queen, or ruling fairly or with honor. She doesn't care about the people."

"No, she doesn't," Tyrion said. "Sansa has many redeeming qualities, but caring for smallfolk is not one that is common among highborns, Jon. You have it, and Daenerys had it. Sansa learned the art of rulership from her personal experiences just like you and Daenerys, but where it turned you into a shield of the realms of men, and Daenerys into a breaker of chains, it turned Sansa into Cersei. It turned her into Littlefinger. She rules with daggers and secrets, with knives and cloaks. Those kinds of rulers are only ever good at keeping their thrones, Jon, not helping the ones their thrones rest upon."

Jon felt tortured, but they were in his private solar, and only Tyrion, whom he trusted, was there to hear. "What makes you think I'll be any different than Daenerys? What makes you think I won't just harm the world by trying to save it like she did?"

"Even though you no longer possess the means, I don't think you would. The dragons were the great test. You had Rhaegal. You could have ridden with him and burned down armies and castles, but you didn't. You had the opportunity, but you didn't take it. You were tested, and you passed. I'll stand by it, and Varys stood by it until it got him killed. If the gods really do flip a coin whenever a Targaryen is born, everyone knows your coin landed the right side up."

Jon snorted derisively. "The only sane Targaryen is the kinslaying one. Bloody hells."

"The same can be said for House Lannister," Tyrion said with a shrug, a small smile tugging at his lips. "How many times are you going to be granted a second chance and sitll doubt yourself, Jon? I think it's time you start to believe that perhaps you are the best option."

"So it's my destiny to rule? I can't believe that."

Tyrion's eyes twinkled with the amusement of a vindicated man. "Daenerys thought it was her destiny. Just another indication of your coin as opposed to hers, Your Grace. Ah, and that reminds me. Your brother sent a message north with a messenger. It would seem sending a raven was too difficult."

"Aye, that'll explain why Sam hasn't sent one in a while - either Sansa's got him cowed or the ravens are being intercepted. What was the message?'

Tyrion grimaced. "Apparently, Lord Harrold Hardyng has come north with three thousand men to support Sansa, even though King Robyn has indicated that he will not get involved in your war. Your brother believes that Sansa has enticed him with marriage. I'll admit, it's a shrewd match. Robyn Arryn may not be weak of mind anymore, but he is likely still frail of body. Until he fathers an heir, the Young Falcon is the heir to the Eyrie."

"Seven hells, Tyrion. If she's got Knights of the Vale... we don't have heavy horse to counter. We barely have mounted troops as it is," Jon groaned. "Send a raven to Forkton, and have their Council of Elders get to creating weirwood longbows and pikes.

"Done," Tyrion said. "Ah, and one more thing. Your brother said that Arya Stark is coming home, and 'that she is not alone.' Does that mean anything to you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for non-book fans: the mountain clansmen have a strange naming tradition where the Lord of a particular house is referred to as "the [name]", so the chief of Wull, Hugo Wull, is called "the Wull." For some reason, when referring to the Starks, they say "the [first name]", so they called Ned Stark "the Ned". Similarly, here they call Jon "the Jon" and Sansa "the Sansa."


	12. The Titan's Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys and Arya arrive in Braavos, where they recieve some sobering news.

**Rhaenys - IV**

**Seventh Moon, 306 A.C.**

She was grateful for opportunities like this. They were few and far between, to begin with.

Rhaenys inhaled, letting the salt-spray smell of the sea mingle with the filth of humanity. Most people would have hated the mixture, but Rhaenys loved it. Asshai had not smelled at all. It was as if even the air was dead in that foul place, but not here.

Braavos was alive. It thrummed with activity, burgeoning, and teeming with people. It was much smaller than Asshai, but also much less empty. It was not perenially dark; the sun shone brightly onto the bleached and beige stone walls and bricks of the houses and roads and bridges. Its rays reflected off the greenish waters of the city's canals, and there was a slight breeze on a temperate day. 

She loved it. It was so different from all the places she had been since her exile from Westeros. Volantis was large, grand, imperial, and faded in her memory. She was kept cloistered and away by the Red Priests. She'd had more freedom in Asshai, but that was only relatively speaking, and Asshai was a place where freedom meant little. The entire, empty, dead city was her prison there. Braavos, the bastard daughter of Valyria, was different. It reflected in the spirit of its people, in the character of its government, and in the alleys of its streets.

She followed along behind Arya as they wound their way through the cobbled paths, pushing their way past people out and about on their business. She wore a mask in the guise of a harlequin, as did Arya; they had arrived during the Uncloaking festivities, and the locals were celebrating in their masquerade fashion. At night, large bonfires were lit in the large squares, and the Braavosi sang and danced around the fire. Different stalls opened in the night, selling fresh food and small tokens to revelers, shutting only when the dawn broke and the city returned to business as normal, only to revel again at night.

Or so, Arya had told her. This festival would last ten days, and they had only arrived the day before. A small part of her, the curious part, wished to stay and hear the Titan roar, and to remove her mask with all the celebrants in unison. She wanted to feel a little normal, and entirely unknown. The mystique of being anyone other than Rhaenys Targaryen called to her, like the seductive song of a siren, but the rest of her thrummed with anxiety, wishing more than anything to cross the Narrow Sea and find her brother. The rational part of her agreed; it was too dangerous to leave the dragons on the ship, and the more time they spent in Ragman's Harbor, the more they chanced discovery. They were only there to find information and rumors. 

Arya seemed more on edge than her. The young woman's grey eyes flashed from corner to corner, appraising every masked person as they passed through the throngs of people. Many people remained unmasked, however; Braavos was a trade city, and that meant outsiders like them. Many came to trade, not to indulge in the festivities, and they chose not to hide their faces. Rhaenys was glad for the excuse, but at the same time, she had seen what seemed like hundreds of Dornishwomen in the city. She would be one among many - it was not as if the features of Valyria were particularly strong in her.

They had lunch from one of the market side stalls on one of the great bridges spanning the Canal of Heroes, a delicious affair of toasted flatbread topped with cheese, garlic, a sauce of basil mixed with crushed pine nuts, and oil. Rhaenys devoured it, as did Arya, both clearly grateful to have something other than dried meat, crackers, or seafood. 

This particular bridge, spanning the breadth of the Canal of Heroes, was also a long thoroughfare market, with the bridge sides covered with stalls and shops. Town criers ran about, proclaiming news, deals, and advertisements from arch to arch, enticing locals and visitors alike with deals. Visitors approached stalls and made offers on the goods they had carried from the other cities, as well as from more exotic places, and there were many merchants there from Westeros as well. It was for these merchants they had come, hoping to glean some information about the situation they would find themselves sailing into. Braavos was their last stop before departing for home, and it was their final chance for reconnaissance.

Gossip and news flowed abundantly in the markets of Braavos, for who else had more stake in the comings and goings of the world but profiteers? Merchants were in the business of gold, and gold was the universal language. They spoke it from the Wall to Dorne, and from the Sunset Sea to the Jade Sea. The first news they received was interesting, but not entirely relevant - King's Landing was still a decimated ruin, and the war in the Crownlands had kept anyone from even trying the foolish task of attempting resettlement ( _"Fat lot of luck they'll have without united kingdoms," scoffed Arya, and Rhaenys was inclined to agree_ ) or trade. Instead, trade was mostly diverted to Duskendale or Spicetown on Driftmark. Without the presence of the crown fleet and the Velaryons too busy fighting with the other crownlander lords against the might of Storm's End on one side and Riverrun on the other, piracy had grown rampant in the Narrow Sea, forcing the Free Cities to send their navies to pacify the oceans and reign in the sellsails and pirates from the Stepstones.

Rhaenys noted a curious little reaction from Arya whenever Storm's End or the Storm King was mentioned by name. Rhaenys suspected that the two must have known each other, but she did not know how, exactly. Gendry Baratheon was Robert's bastard, and that naturally predisposed her to feel antagonistic towards him, but Arya seemed to be curiously reticent whenever his name was spoken. She made a mental note to ask her about it later.

Then the news began to grow more interesting. Arya overheard a jeweler speaking to a gold merchant about the price of gold, and how it had fluctuated to the benefit of Braavosi merchants ever since Daven Lannister dethroned Tyrion Lannister. As interesting as that news was, the little bit about Tyrion Lannister reportedly fleeing beyond the Wall was what interested them the most.

"Tyrion would only to go the Wall for one reason - if Jon was there. The last time he was exiled, he came to Essos," Arya deduced.

"Does that mean that Jon has taken the black again?" Rhaenys asked. She certainly hoped not. From what Arya had told her, Jon was not a man who broke his oaths. If he had sworn to hold no lands or father no children, he would not leave those vows behind.

 _But they are the shields that guard the realms of men_ , a voice inside her insisted. _There are no more dead to shield the realm from, save for Daenerys. If he cannot break his oath, then he'll have to stretch it. I'll convince him to see reason._

Arya tugged at Rhaenys' sleeve and pointed subtly at a man dressed in greys and browns. Rhaenys heard his words before she saw him in full.

"Aye, it's all bloody gone," the man said in a gruff voice, but distinctly highborn in its inflection. "Taken for the war effort, you see. The Queen in the North needs to outfit her armies with proper clothing for beyond the Wall," the man was saying to a buyer. "I'll have more the next time I visit, assuming the North isn't ashes by the time I make it back to White Harbor."

An ugly pit of nervousness opened up in Rhaenys’ stomach as she exchanged a glance with Arya. Fixing her eyes back on the merchant, she studied the man carefully. He was tall and strongly built, with burly shoulders and a strong frame. He was of middle age, with a plain face distinguished only by a grey beard and slate-colored eyes. He had a blue-grey tartan cloak and wore the dour clothes Rhaenys had come to associate with Northerners.

"Do you know him?" she whispered to Arya.

"That's Ser Marlon Manderly, cousin to Lord Wyman Manderly. He fought at Winterfell against the Dead."

Rhaenys knew the name. The Red Priests had not neglected to give her and Aegon an education about their homeland in preparation for a future in which the Targaryen siblings would return to take the throne and to spread the faith of the Lord of Light in Westeros. She knew all the names, all the sigils, and all the words - she'd taken happily to the books and to learning as a child. Aegon knew it all too, though she knew getting him to learn all those things was more of a chore. Aegon was predisposed towards the sword. Manderly was one of the largest houses in the North, controlling the North's largest city and greatest port. They were more southern than all the other Northerners, and they worshipped the Seven instead of the heathen tree gods of the North.

She also knew from Arya that among the Northern lords, the Manderlys held Jon in high regard. Their southern origins probably helped - to them, a Targaryen was more palatable than to the other Northern lords, even if that Targaryen happened to be the son of the beloved Lyanna Stark. But more than that, among the other Northern lords who'd pledged their fealty to Jon, the Manderlys had stuck to their oath. Other houses were less loyal - Cerwyn, Glover, among others.

"Can he help us?" Rhaenys asked softly. Her mind sifted through all the possibilities. Her identity was safe - no one would suspect that this unassuming Dornishwoman, albeit with violet eyes, was Rhaenys Targaryen. Arya's identity would be given away, however. But if the Manderlys were supporters of Jon, perhaps they would know where to find him.

"I think it's worth speaking to the man, if nothing else," Arya said. Rhaenys nodded in agreement and shadowed Arya's footsteps as she made her way through the crowd. As always, it astounded her how the Stark woman could disappear even in broad daylight as if she was nothing but a passing flicker in the eye. They tailed Ser Marlon, who spoke to various dealers and distributors of wool, assuring them that House Manderly's wares would be making their way to the Free Cities once the war died down. Every time it was mentioned, the pit of nervousness grew larger and larger inside Rhaenys. What war? Why beyond the Wall? Who was there even to fight? Ser Marlon seemed far too casual about it for it to be another war with the Dead - at least, she hoped. And if not the dead, who? The natural answer would be the Wildlings, but everything she had learned from Moqorro and Daenerys and Arya had led her to believe that the Wildlings were decimated in numbers, too weak to put up a real fight against the fully mustered strength of any of the Seven Kingdoms.

Ser Marlon passed the bridge in the direction of the harbor. When he left the central thoroughfare that led to Ragman's Harbor, however, Arya sped up, tailing him closer, waiting for him to turn into an alleyway. As the man did, Arya sprang into action, confronting the man and tearing off her mask.

"Recognize me, Ser Marlon?" Arya said.

The man paused, eyeing Rhaenys quickly before settling his attention back to Arya. His face shifted almost comically as a light of recognition flickered to life in his mind.

"Princess Arya? What-"

"Unfortunately, my lord, I believe my questions are more pressing than yours. I've been gone for more than a year now, and I've heard some curious rumors. What news? What war did you speak of back in the market?"

Ser Marlon quickly glanced back and forth between Arya and Rhaenys, bewilderment and confusion contorting his face. He seemed to remember his manners, bowing in front of Arya and kissing her hand. "Forgive me, Princess Arya, but I'm simply astounded to meet you here in Braavos of all places. You were last seen sailing west into the Sunset Sea. Does this mean -"

Arya rolled her eyes, clearly sensing that she was not going to be let off easy without at least some information. In truth, Rhaenys did not blame Ser Marlon. She had been more curious than anyone about Arya's travels into the West and what she had found there. Clearly, the circumnavigation had proven the Maesters right that the world was round, but it was the stories of jungle empires, of great pyramids whose stepstones were stained in the blood of human sacrifices, great warriors with feathered crowns riding large wooly bull-like creatures, and countless other tales that had captured Rhaenys' imagination, exciting her inner scholar. Aegon had always japed that she would have made a better Maester than a princess or a queen.

"Yes, Ser Marlon. And I promise, if you desire, I shall host you at Winterfell and regale you with stories of my discoveries, but we have more pressing matters at hand. What war do you speak of?"

The man collected himself, clearing his throat and straightening his back, addressing Arya with the proper respect due to her station, though she still caught small flickers of movement in his eyes that indicated his curiosity about her. Rhaenys realized that wearing a mask might give him the wrong idea, and as there was no way Ser Marlon would know who he was, she took it off.

"Forgive me, Princess. I only now realize that you have been gone ever since the events of the Great Council. I shall tell you what has transpired in the meantime. Your... cousin, Jon Snow - Aemon Targaryen - led thousands of refugees from the Crownlands and Riverlands through the North and beyond the Wall. We heard rumors of hostilities between the wildlings and the Ironborn, and several moons ago, ravens arrived all over the North and the rest of the kingdoms proclaiming the Kingdom beyond the Wall, ruled by Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark. The Queen declared him a deserter from the Night's Watch and intends to march north to bring him to justice."

Rhaenys bit her tongue to keep herself from defending Jon. She thought to herself how strange it was that she felt the urge to defend someone who was a complete stranger to her, who didn't even know she existed, only because they shared blood. _But then again,_ Rhaenys thought, _dragons are territorial, fierce, and loyal, just like wolves._ At the same time, she was filled with an inexplicable flush of pride. Jon was a king. He could rally Westeros against the coming threat. House Targaryen was not extinguished, just yet. Every time the country went up in flames, the dragons found a way to rise from the ashes.

"To justice?" Arya looked apoplectic, her face filled with fury. "You're telling me that Sansa has declared war on Jon?"

"Yes, Princess," the knight said solemnly. "I departed from White Harbor a fortnight ago and only arrived in Braavos last night, but I received a raven from my lord cousin before I left. He travelled to Winterfell for the wedding - Prince Brandon's wedding, to Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch. It would seem that Queen Sansa has announced her betrothal to the heir to the Eyrie, Lord Harrold Hardyng."

That name was unknown to Rhaenys, and she couldn't help but blurt out, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Forgive me, Ser Marlon, but that is not a name I'm familiar with. I thought the Arryns ruled the Vale."

The knight blinked, as if surprised to be addressed so directly by her. "Forgive me, my lady, but I have yet to make your acquaintance."

 _Damn_ _it,_ Rhaenys thought. She resisted the urge to look at Arya, knowing that would give her away. Instead, she smiled coquettishly. "Perhaps you've heard of my sisters. You've certainly heard of my father, Oberyn Martell."

A comprehending light flickered in Ser Marlon's eyes. "Aye, I have. Your father was one of the finest warriors I've had the pleasure to see, my lady. I daresay you rather look like your aunt, Queen Elia. My apologies for your loss, and for the loss of your sisters that died in the war," he added courteously. "I cannot recall all the names of your sisters."

"My name is Elia," Rhaenys added hastily, a small blush coloring her cheeks as she picked the one cousin of hers that was her mother's namesake without hesitation. "Elia Sand."

"Well named and well met, Lady Sand," Ser Marlon said, kissing her proferred hand. "Lord Hardyng is the last male descendant of Lord Jasper Arryn, aside from King Robyn, of course. And as King Robyn has yet to produce an heir of Arryn blood, Lord Hardyng is the heir presumptive until then. Though, with the losses the Valemen suffered in the war, Hardyng was given enough lands, manors, and castles to make him a powerful bannerman in his own right." He turned to Arya to address her directly. "Lord Hardyng brought with him two thousand levies, seven hundred mounted men-at-arms, and three hundred knights to Winterfell the day after Prince Brandon's wedding. I believe that they would have marched north by now, along the Kingsroad. If it has been over a fortnight since then, I daresay they aren't far from Long Lake by now."

Arya's face seemed to lose color. "Are all the banners of the North marching with Sansa?" She looked Ser Marlon directly in the eye. "Lord Manderly, I charge you to tell me the truth. The lords of the North swore an oath to Jon. He saved your skins from the-"

The knight bowed again to Arya. "My princess, I will not speak for my house - only my lord cousin can do so. But for me, I have always regarded Jon Snow as my king. I followed him to fight the dead against Winterfell and I followed him to King's Landing. I saw him try to maintain a semblance of order during the sacking and pillaging. I am happy that I do not have to go and fight against him. I can only say that there are lords in the North who agree with me."

Arya's fury softened, and she bade for Ser Marlon to rise. "Where can I go to meet Jon?"

"By royal decree, your sister forbade trade with the new kingdom, but men trade there anyway," the knight said bluntly with a shrug of his shoulders. "The new kingdom is rich in furs, timbers, and ores, from what traders from White Harbor say. There are several settlements that are growing beyond the Wall. You could sail to Hardhome, but I fear that would take you away from both your sister and the King beyond the Wall. His capital, such as it is, I have heard to be around the Fist of the First Men, along the Milkwater, which is traversable but only from the other side of Westeros. Perhaps you could sail to Eastwatch before deciding whether to go further north," he suggested.

Eastwatch made sense to Rhaenys. Once landed there, they could ascertain Jon and Sansa's locations and attempt to head off the battle. She hoped it would not come to war, and she prayed that she and Arya would be able to make it on time. The last thing they needed was the North to be decimated by war and unable to muster its strength against the coming storm. Even worse, what if Jon lost? He had the North and a contingent from the Vale arrayed against him. The nervousness only grew stronger in Rhaenys. How many men could Jon command? He would certainly lose in battle and their hopes to defeat Daenerys would vanish into thin air. Rhaenys could not do it alone. She wasn't a warrior, not like her namesake or like Visenya.

"You have my thanks, Ser Marlon. Know this - House Stark remembers those who uphold their oaths and those who betray them. If Lord Manderly is of one mind with you, House Manderly will have earned itself the gratitude of House Stark."

* * *

Arya paced the deck of the ship as the winds whipped through the sails of their ship. Braavos receded in the distance, and the Titan grew smaller and smaller as their ship carved through the waves, travelling ever closer to their destination. Rhaenys watched her mutely. She could tell that the younger girl was stewing. She wanted to reassure her, but there was a stifling feeling in her own heart, a sense of dread that wouldn't allow her to form the comforting words. Not that Arya Stark of all people would accept them, anyway.

"Will you quit bloody sprinting on the deck, Arya? You're making me panic."

Arya halted in her tracks and glared at her. Rhaenys shrugged and held up a hand in a sign of conciliation. "I'm simply teasing. It'll be alright."

"How can you say that, Rhae? My siblings are at each others' throats, and I can't do a thing about it from here. I feel useless." Arya kicked the mast in frustration. "It's just like it was at the beginning of the war. I feel like that same powerless spectator again. All I can do is watch as everything falls to shit around me"

"You're not," Rhaenys said, crossing the distance between them. She put her hands on Arya's shoulders, hoping to soothe the agitated girl. "Trust me, Arya, as someone who's not long removed from her gilded cage, you strike me as one of the most powerful people in the world. I trust you with my life, and I daresay Jon does too. We'll make it there in time. We'll make peace between Jon and Sansa, and we'll rally the kingdoms to fight Daenerys."

Arya's shoulders sagged, and she leaned into the contact. The embrace quickly became a hug between the two woman. Rhaenys felt warm and comfortable despite Arya's cold and tough demeanor, and she realized that she'd made a friend in the course of their journey together.

"Thanks, Rhae," Arya said with a soft smile. "We have to talk about what we're going to do once we get to Eastwatch, though."

"Fair enough." Rhaenys sat down on a bench and Arya took her place on a crate across from her. "So, what exactly is the plan, then?" She glanced below deck to where the two dragons were being kept. "And how are we going to get them around anywhere?"

Arya shook her head. "I'm not sure about the dragons, but we at least need to find out who we can and can't trust. I can tell you that the Grand Maester in the North, Samwell Tarly, is loyal to Jon more than anyone else. Sam served in the Watch with him, he's the one who found the proof of Rhaegar's marriage with Aunt Lyanna. There are also some families besides Manderly that are more predisposed towards Jon - Hornwood for one, their line is only around because Jon legitimized Larence Snow. The Reeds will back him, as will the Forresters after he brought justice against House Whitehill. Bran is the great unknown."

Arya had not delved deeply into it, nor had Rhaenys asked, but she knew that the crippled boy Brandon Stark was a powerful seer with visions that came true. He had possessed the ability to see into the past, though Arya said that it had begun to fade after the defeat of the White Walkers.

"Will he side with us?" 

"I don't know," Arya said. "It troubles me. Bran isn't... he's different. I don't think he has the same greed as other people do. I can't imagine what it's like to be the vessel of something as uncaring and unfeeling as the old god that was in him. I've grown accustomed to the harshness of this world, but even I wasn't as cold as Bran was. And gods, he's married now..."

"Does it make you feel distant from your family?" Rhaenys asked. "To hear about these things so long after they've happened?"

"It's the consequence of traveling," Arya said. "But sometimes I feel it deeply. And it's worse because I can't be in two places at once, and that means that I have to wait and watch things unfold without my will." She stared off, far away at some unknown horizon. "I can't be a lady, but... I'm also not sure that I want to be so separated from my family." Her eyes met Rhaenys', grey on violet, and Rhaenys could see the weariness in them. "I've given up much for my freedom."

Rhaenys was quiet for a moment, thinking of what to say, but a stray thought struck her quickly. "Be careful not to enslave yourself chasing after freedom, Arya. That's a sort of prison in and of itself."

"Have you ever loved someone?" Arya asked suddenly. Rhaenys was taken aback at the question. When she thought about it, there wasn't truly anyone should name. Aegon?She'd always loved him as a sister, and though she had no qualms in being his wife and going to his marriage bed, she wasn't sure she could call it love of the sort Arya was asking about.

"I suppose not," Rhaenys said sadly. "I would have married Aegon if I hadn't left with you. It didn't bother me, but I didn't love him in the way you're asking. Was there someone for you?"

"Yes, there was. I left him behind," Arya said simply.

"Is he alive?" 

Arya grinned. "Stupid bull of a man would never go down that easily. His name is Gendry."

"Gendry... Baratheon?" Rhaenys said, shock filling her voice. "Your love was the Storm King, the son of Robert?"

"He wasn't the Storm King when we met," Arya said with a bemused scoff. "He was a poor blacksmith's apprentice from Flea Bottom and I was a boy named Arry. We were both headed for the Wall - or rather, Gendry was. I was being taken north by one of the Night's Watchmen to Robb. We helped each other survive, and then we lost each other. I went to Braavos. We reunited in the North during the Great War." Arya smiled and her eyes became faraway, lost in some pleasant memory. "He isn't like his father, Rhae. He's sweet and gentle where Robert was a fat bloated drunken oaf. Aye, he's headstrong and stubborn, but he has honor and kindness in him."

"Daenerys seemed to think that Gendry Baratheon would side with her when the time comes."

Arya snorted. "Then she's not very good at reading people. What, she thought that by giving him his father's name, she earned his loyalty for life? Gendry grew up in Flea Bottom. There were enough charalatans in that part of the city that he knew better than to sleep with both eyes closed. That was one of the differences between Daenerys and Jon - she bought loyalty. Jon earned it. Gendry and Jon get along well. Gendry was most vocal when arguing to spare Jon, even in the face of Yara Greyjoy." A ghost of a smile flitted over Arya's features. "I suppose you and Jon are kin to Gendry, even. His great grandmother was Princess Rhaelle."

Rhaenys felt a little sting from the irony of it all. They were all children of their parents, parents who had fought wars and spilled each other's blood, killed innocents, ruined countries, and kingdoms. Robert Baratheon had loved Lyanna, who apparently had never loved him back, but his natural son and Lyanna's reincarnation were in love. Jon was a dragon raised as a wolf. Every time she thought of that black haired, hammer wielding terror, Rhaenys felt the bile rise up in her throat. She knew that when the time came, she would have to give Gendry a fair chance instead of imagining the ghosts of her past, but whether or not she was able to was another matter entirely.

"I know what you're thinking, Rhae," Arya said gently, her voice breaking into Rhaenys' runaway thoughts. "He's not like that. He would never look at dead children and find joy in it."

"I know," Rhaenys lied. She hoped it was convincing.

* * *

**Eighth Moon, 306 AC**

It grew colder and colder as they approached Eastwatch, and Rhaenys found herself wearing wool more than silk for the first time in her life. She thought she would hate it, and admittedly the clothes were somewhat itchy, but they made her feel warmth; and if there was something the Dornish appreciated, it was warmth.

It was a cool, crisp morning, still foggy, when they arrived at Eastwatch. The mists began to dissipate under the rays of dawn, and then Rhaenys saw it.

Shooting up hundreds of feet in the air was a massive block of ice, appearing crystalline blue in the new day's sun, tinged just only slightly pink from the early morning. It was incredible and beyond words. She thought it would have been even more impressive if it wasn't entirely ruined where the land met the sea.

The Wall in that portion was in shambles, something strong and powerful having broken through it and shattered the ice there. The hole had been plugged by a string of castles that streteched from the unbroken wall to the sea. The original citadel of Eastwatch perched between land and sea, and a large pier jutted out into the ocean. 

Rhaenys Targaryen was home, finally, back to the land she had fled more than twenty years ago, and close to the brother she had never met.


	13. Siblings' War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa meet; the prelude to war.

**Bran – II**

_Eighth Moon, 306 AC_

Bran sat and waited underneath the flapping canvas of the tent, as the great bannermen of the North arrayed themselves around a long table. Sansa sat at the head, looking regal and detached in a grey dress that was both magnificent and practical for riding. She wore her circlet, crowned with the trappings of the monarchy. The banner of the direwolf was displayed prominently behind her.

The lords were arguing among themselves – when were they not, Bran thought amusedly – about how to approach the meeting. They’d done nothing but argue since the rider had come over the hill along the Kingsroad bearing a flag of parley.

There were more ways than one past the Wall, Bran surmised. It was interesting that Jon would seek to meet them within the territory of the North rather than nearer to the Wall itself. A place like Queenscrown would have made a more natural meeting location than a small hillock near the western edge of Long Lake.

They were also expecting the arrival of the Mountain Clans and their lords – Wull, Norrey, Liddle, among others – and their forces.

They had assembled a large host – eighteen thousand men, including the Valemen that had come up with Harrold Hardyng. Bran tried not to let his displeasure show on his face. Harrold Hardyng was a boastful oaf, but he had men and seemed a competent tourney knight if nothing else. Sansa didn’t have to love him, or even like him. Sansa needed his men, and the potential claim to the Eyrie it bestowed upon her.

That particular thought lent some queasiness to Bran, not that he was worried that she would attempt to have Cousin Robyn killed. But Bran could not shake the feeling that she coveted a third region under her thumb. If Sansa ruled the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale... well, she wasn't far away from collecting the set.

Harrold, on the other hand, was naked ambition manifest. Harrold looked every bit a King of Mountain and Vale, and had the ambition to match, even if he did not possess the brightness. He was possessed of a certain low cunning, and that made Bran wary. He watched the sandy-haired lord sit next to Sansa, who kept her face impassive even as Harrold whispered something into her ear.

“I strongly dislike that man,” Meera whispered into his ear, causing Bran to smirk. One of the things he’d always appreciated about his lady wife was her ability to say the right thing at the right time as if she could read his mind – one more thing that made him happy to be rid of the Three-Eyed Raven and his powers.

“Do you, wife?” he whispered back, turning his wheelchair only slightly, just to face her. Meera’s green eyes twinkled back at him, and he had to resist an altogether unseemly urge to kiss his wife then and there.

“He’s obnoxious. Even for three thousand swords, I think your sister is beginning to regret her end of the bargain.” That elicited a soft laugh from Bran, but it was cut short when a herald burst into the large tent, kneeling before Sansa, who stood up. All the chairs in the tent shifted back as the lords quietened down and stood along with their queen, including Meera.

“Your Grace,” the man huffed, out of breath. “Jon Snow approaches. The lords of the Mountain Clans are also almost here.”

“Good man. Go to the supply train and grab yourself a meal, if the Queen permits,” barked Robett Glover.

Sansa dipped her head. “I thank you for your faithful service, soldier. You are dismissed.”

The man bowed and departed, still collecting his breath. Sansa began to walk out of the tent, and the lords all followed her. Outside the tent was a large meadow by the lakeside. The Kingsroad wound up all the way north, eventually leading to Castle Black, while the same road also wound all the way south, back to Winterfell, and further on to the South.

Over the hillock, two large banners were sighted. One was the banner of the Starks, familiar to all of them, but with different colors. Where the Stark banner had the grey direwolf on a white field, Jon’s banner had a white direwolf on a black field. Bran had to muster a valiant effort to hide a smirk at that, and one look at Sansa confirmed that she was indeed fuming inside, though she would have seemed impassive to anyone who did not know the telltale clues. The grumbling behind Sansa also let Bran know that whatever Jon had planned with the Stark banner, it had worked. Some of the Jon loyalists were sharing coy smiles, while Sansa’s men jeered and mocked it.

The other banner caused a disquieting silence to fall over the throng, though. It was the dragon banner, but with a white dragon instead of a red one.

 _Fire and blood. Ice and winter_ , Bran thought, _all combined into one_.

The party carrying the banners became visible. Jon appeared on a great dappled destrier, wearing all black as if he was coming down from a shift atop the wall. But where the outfits of the Night’s Watch were ragged and frayed, Jon’s were fine, befitting a king. His cloak billowed behind him with the fluttering breeze, and he wore boiled leather armor. He had a black steel gorget with a white, three-headed dragon, and a white direwolf dancing in relief.

Next to him were familiar faces – Tormund was absolutely no surprise, and Bran noted Ser Brienne’s grip tighten on her sword when she saw him – but the second face caused many of the present lords to jeer. On a smaller hobby pony rode Tyrion Lannister, dressed in black as well. Behind Jon and his companions was a small guard of soldiers, similarly outfitted in black, carrying weirwood spears and bows, grim-faced. Some were clearly Free Folk in appearance, but others looked southern.

Jon’s party paused at a distance, their attention diverted to the west. Another party approached the meeting ground, all on foot – huge men, all over six feet tall, and with large bellies to boot. These were the Mountain clans. Bran recognized some and did not recognize others, from his days at lording over Winterfell in Robb’s absence. They seemed solemn as if they were ready to do battle. A loud cheer went up from Sansa’s loyalists as they saw reinforcements approaching. With the mountain clans, Sansa would have nearly twenty thousand men at her disposal. But something was wrong. Bran could see it on the faces of the mountain clan lords as they remained still grim, still impassive as stone, not acknowledging their comrades, but simply sidling into their positions among the Northern lords.

Jon approached, along with his party, before he stood at a respectful distance from Sansa and her lords. Bran watched the two and their faces – Sansa’s mask of impassivity fell just long enough for an expression of distaste to pass over her face, an expression that looked just like one Mother would have used against Jon. For his part, however, Jon did not react, simply gazing onwards like stone, his grey eyes piercing through the assembled people.

“You stand in the presence of Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen in the North, of the Trident, and of the First Men, Lady of Winterfell, the Red Wolf, Boltonbane,” announced Lord Glover. The man had become entirely too smug as Sansa’s Hand, which was simply a reward made with the intention of keeping one of the most powerful Northern lords in line. The Glovers controlled much of the northern part of the kingdom with the demise of the Umbers, and until more lords could be raised and given lands, they were stewards of great swathes of territory. Glover had initially been Master of War, but Sansa had given him a “promotion” and made Harrold Hardyng Master of War instead.

Needless to say, Bran did not appreciate Sansa's appointments, but he was not king.

Tyrion announced Jon. “You stand in the presence of Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of his Name, King Beyond the Wall, the White Wolf, the Dragon in the North, Commander of the Free Folk.” Tyrion drew breath, once more. “Prince of Dragonstone, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and rightful Lord of the Eight Kingdoms.”

“And Krakenbane!” shouted Tormund gruffly, a call that was echoed loudly by Jon’s guard and retinue.

A gasp went up among some of the Northern lords at Jon’s choice of titles, but Bran thought it masterfully clever. Sansa had represented herself as monarch of one kingdom; Jon had positioned himself as rightful monarch of eight. It was a needle aimed to insult Sansa, and judging by the extra red present in her cheeks, it had at least partially worked.

For his part, Jon did not seem to gloat or take any particular pleasure in his titles, but he also did not seem to shy away from them. Bran did not see the hesitation that had plagued Jon so much before. He seemed, if not comfortable, then at least in control of the authority that he wielded. Jon shifted in his saddle and only then did Bran mark the sword that was slung across his back, for it was not Longclaw, which was tied to his waist with his scabbard and belt in Jon’s usual manner.

It was in a glorious red scabbard, with a flame pommel that Bran would have recognized anywhere. There had been only drawings of the sword, but he knew immediately which one it was. Jon had found Dark Sister, and if he had done so, he had likely paid a visit to the Three-Eyed Raven and his cave. A sudden sense of foreboding came over Bran, and his uneasiness doubled and tripled.

“I wasn’t aware that the Night’s Watch vows allowed for such an impressive collection of titles, Jon Snow,” Sansa called out. A few of the Northern lords snickered at her choice of address. “I was told that one must forsake women and titles upon taking the black.”

Jon did not rise to her bait, to his credit. His grey eyes simply scanned hers, before his gruff voice boomed in front of the assembled.

“I have taken the black, Sansa. The black of my house.”

“You have been called here to answer for your crime of desertion from the Night’s Watch, to which you were sentenced for your transgressions,” Sansa forged on. “I promise you an amnesty and a chance to serve nobly at the Wall like your uncles Aemon and Benjen, if you take responsibility for your actions and repent here publicly, forever renouncing all your claims and titles.”

Jon did not answer but turned his attention away from Sansa entirely. His eyes met Bran’s and he smiled a little.

“It’s good to see you, brother. I see that you received Lady Reed’s message,” he said, a spark of amusement in his eye.

Bran smiled widely, his happiness at seeing his brother, even in these circumstances. “Lady Stark now, Lord Targaryen,” Meera said. Bran almost chuckled at the choice of address, clearly acknowledging Jon’s background without directly stepping on Sansa’s toes.

“I am pleased to see you then, Lady Stark. I do not see your lord father assembled here, so I ask you to pass on my greetings when you see him.”

“Father would be honored, my lord,” Meera said with a curtsey.

Jon turned his attention now to the Mountain Clansmen. “Lord Wull, if you would,” he said.

Bran turned in confusion to the Big Bucket, as Jon addressed the man directly. He received a partial answer to his question when he saw Sansa’s face wholly drain of blood. Lord Wull retrieved a chest and unfurled black and yellow fabric from it, casting it on the ground and spitting on it.

“The Jon found these Kraken banners on Bear Island. The Queen allowed the Krakens to use Bear Island as a base to raid beyond the Wall. She is in league with the squids.”

All hells broke loose.

The Northern lords began to shout at one another, yelling obscenities and hurling accusations of betrayal. The Mountain clansmen crossed over to Jon’s side, and Jon clapped their shoulders and clasped their arms, welcoming them into the fold. Bran did not know how many soldiers Jon had, but he had just earned himself at least two thousand more ferocious hill warriors.

Eventually, Glover, Sansa, and Hardyng were able to maintain the peace among the other Northern lords. “What proof do you have to offer other than Greyjoy banners? For all we know, you could have simply stolen some off dead reavers and presented them as evidence,” Glover spat at Jon.

Bran realized that those in Sansa’s inner circle already knew, or that Sansa had taken steps to ensure their loyalty even despite the fact. Glover had a natural cause to hate the Ironborn, but even he, tempted with the riches and wealth of dead Northern houses, decided to stay loyal to Sansa. Bran craned his neck around to glance at Sam, but Sam was already on the move, crossing over to Jon’s side, where he embraced his friend warmly.

Jon fixed his attention onto Lord Glover. “Lies and broken oaths are your realm, my lord. Those assembled here know I do not dabble in them, not when there are practiced hands such as yours at the game.”

This elicited snickers from even some of the lords in Sansa’s camp.

“I was on Bear Island a moon ago,” Jon continued. His retinue carried boxes behind them and began unloading. There were provisions there, bearing Kraken symbols, and then there were also burned flags bearing the sigils of House Mormont, and corpses and bones. “The Queen allowed the Ironborn to sack the remaining villages of Bear Island. Not a single resident survived, or else I daresay you all would have heard of the butchery. Villages were razed, children and babes were murdered and taken.” Jon’s voice turned into a feral snarl. “Sansa has let down the North. She has dishonored the memory of my dear uncle, the man I still call Father in my prayers in front of the gods. Sansa has forgotten our words, our ways. She is more Tully than Stark, and she is not fit to rule.”

He pulled himself up proud, his face now contorted with rage. All of a sudden, Bran did not see Father anymore, but instead Aunt Lyanna, Uncle Brandon, or one of the great dragonlords – Aegon the Conqueror, or Daemon Targaryen. “I offer you this - abdicate your throne to Bran. You may depart my kingdom in peace. Swear a truce in front of the old gods, not in your farce of a sept. In return, I offer trade and good relations. In the future, I may consider fostering my heirs with Bran at Greywater Watch, or at Winterfell, or you may foster yours at Dragonsreach. I will even aid you in repelling the Ironborn if you swear to break your pact with them, and you put Bear Island under my protection. I offer you this one mercy. But know that if you proceed, Sansa, my offer will be gone. I will have only fire and blood to offer you.”

It was a generous offer. Jon was a much more reliable ally than the Ironborn, and what was more, he was kin. He was their brother. He glanced at Sansa, hoping reason would win the day, but it was not reason that was splayed on his sister’s face, but jealousy, rage, and anger molded into an expression that belonged to Catelyn Tully, not Sansa Stark. He knew she was about to refuse, but he couldn’t let the opportunity pass.

“My lords!” Bran shouted. “I would like to have words with my brother and sister.”

* * *

It was only the three of them in the tent, as well as Meera, who sat a distance away from the three siblings. Jon and Sansa stared at each other from across the table, while Bran sat in between, playing the conciliator.

“Sansa,” Bran sighed. “What are we doing here? You can’t honestly mean to continue with this mummer's farce.”

“It’s not a mummer's farce,” Sansa said coldly. “Jon was to take the black for his crimes. It was what we all agreed on at the Great Council. He’s a deserter.”

“I’m not a deserter if I never took the vows,” Jon said quietly. “Don't make me fight a war with you, Sansa. What would Father say if he saw us like this?”

“Don’t talk to me about what Father would say,” Sansa hissed. “Father wanted you at the Wall in the first place.”

“Father wanted my safety. He was wrong to not tell me who I was, yes. But I know he didn’t send me to the Wall because he wanted my claim destroyed, not the way you do.” Jon shook his head bitterly. “Sansa, if you wanted the North, I would have given it to you. I would have given it to Bran if you wanted, or to Arya. But instead of asking, you played me and Daenerys against each other. You set our alliance on fire. Your betrayal was the first spark in the fire of her madness. Just like Littlefinger, your little blaze of ambition ended up burning millions.”

“I did what I did for the North,” Sansa retorted. “I didn’t want to give it away to some outsider.”

“You’re as much of an outsider to it as she was. How could you make common cause with the Ironborn if you were truly a Northerner at heart?”

“Don’t be so bloody naïve, Jon,” Sansa said. “When you rule, the best thing to do is not always the moral or popular thing. You don’t know the sacrifices I’ve had to make.”

“I don’t?” Jon asked calmly. “I, who plunged a knife into the heart of my love and my kin after your betrayals drove her mad? I, who gave my life on the Wall? I, who charged into the arrows of the Boltons after Rickon because I wasn’t told that the Knights of the Vale were on their way?” Jon shook his head, his black curls bouncing. "Sansa, you don't have to abdicate, but you owe the North your care and compassion. Don't rule like Cersei. Don't keep a court of shadows and secrets."

“Sansa, take the offer,” Bran pleaded. “Jon can be an ally-“

“No,” Sansa snarled. “I will not have him nipping at my heels, threatening my crown. He has to renounce his claims. All of them.”

And suddenly, the core issue was apparent to Bran. It was not Jon’s actions that fueled Sansa’s antagonism and paranoia, but rather his name. Bran, as a cripple, would never inherit under the Northern laws, though his heirs might. But as of now, Jon was the only male descendant of Rickard Stark that was alive and eligible to inherit. He was trueborn. He had a claim, and he had loyal supporters. Sansa would not be swayed in this, just as Cersei would not have been swayed against taking steps to ensure that other claimants to Joffrey’s throne were eliminated. But for their bond as kin, Sansa could very well have Jon murdered in his sleep.

Jon stood and made for the tent’s exit, before turning to face them one more time. “Just remember, Sansa, that I never wanted this. You’re both my siblings even if you go to war with me. But if you go to war with me, I will not hold back.”

"You almost lost the Battle of the Bastards, Jon," Sansa sneered. "You certainly would have if it weren't for the Knights of the Vale."

Jon shrugged. "Aye, that's true. And if you had told me about them, perhaps we would have won cleaner. Rickon might have lived."

Ghost, who had ambled behind his master, suddenly veered away from him and toward Meera. He sniffed her belly, before beginning to wag his tail and pant. The great direwolf let out a contented sound, and Bran went red, as did Meera.

Jon stared at both of them in surprise. “Bran-?”

Bran shrugged with a sly smile. “We didn’t know it would work either.” Meera smiled and put a hand on her belly.

Jon let out a small laugh and beamed. “I’m to be an uncle. Is it too early, or have you thought of names?”

Meera smiled. “Robb if it’s a boy. Lyanna if it’s a girl. We had hoped for it to be a surprise, but it seems Ghost has given away the game."

That was putting it lightly, Bran thought. They had wanted to keep it from Sansa. Now, mixed with Jon's demand for Sansa's abdication, even if it was revoked... he felt uneasy.

Bran could have sworn he saw a hint of moisture in Jon’s eyes. “Good names for the future of House Stark,” he said. His eyes remained soft as he turned his attention to Sansa once more, whose eyes were fixed on no one in particular, taking more interest in the canvas of the tent than the occupants inside.

“Goodbye, sister,” he said. Ghost pawed away after him, with one more sniff of Meera’s belly and a curious whine.

Sansa did not respond, and when Bran looked at her, her eyes flickered between his own and Meera's belly that send a thousand pinpricks up his neck with a feeling like ice-cold water. Suddenly, he no longer felt safe.

* * *

The lords who were now known to be in Jon's faction left in the night, defecting under cover of darkness. Where Sansa had marched with eighteen thousand, hoping to collect the mountain clans and make it twenty, she had instead been faced with desertion. Manderly and all his vassals were gone, as was Hornwood and Forrester with their more modest forces. They had also lost the Mountain clans.

Even so, Bran suspected that Sansa’s remaining fourteen thousand still outnumbered Jon’s forces, but Sansa did not seem particularly worried, and that worried Bran. The reason why became apparent the very next day.

Ten thousand men came marching up the Kingsroad, looking forlorn and tired, but present nonetheless. Bran recognized the flags immediately – eagles on purple, the Twins in red and yellow, like the sigil of the Freys, but of a different coloring, now belonging to Lord Bronn of House Blackwater. At the head of the column rode Edmure Tully. Sansa had summoned her armies from the Trident clandestinely. It dawned on Bran that Sansa had planned on her alliance with the Ironborn being discovered eventually, and she wanted those lords who were loyal to Jon to cross over to his side. She had planned it from the very beginning - she was going to eliminate Jon and his faction all at once.

Before Sansa met Uncle Edmure, Bran requested a word with her. He was still half surprised when she granted him an audience, and he met with her in her private tent, with only Meera in attendance.

"You knew that Uncle Edmure was headed here," Bran said accusingly. "That's why you didn't even entertain Jon's offer."

"Why should I?" she asked coldly. "I'm in a position of strength, and Jon thought he had me defeated when he swayed those traitor lords to his side."

"You knew they weren't loyal to you, so you let them go," Bran muttered. A part of him desperately wished for the powers of the Three-Eyed Raven back, just so he could cut through the fog and subterfuge. They had never been like this in their childhood - it was not how Father had raised them. But they were all different now, keeping their secrets, hiding their motives. All except Jon. He had somehow been the best of them.

"I did," Sansa said. "And now when I have their heads, their lands will go to those whose fealty is less in question. The North is mine."

Bran would have felt that he was speaking to a stranger, but he recognized the ghost of Cersei Lannister quite vividly.

* * *

It was the final straw for Bran, as he realized that Sansa did not have a single care for the North in truth. Her only objective was to keep her throne, by any means necessary. Meera's crannogmen were not a large contingent of the northern army, but they were the best scouts in the North, and their lord and lady had lost all faith in Sansa. As Sansa greeted their uncle, Bran, Meera, and the crannogmen slipped away, vanishing to the North. The journey was not pleasant, even with Bran's modified saddle allowing him to travel comfortably on horseback. The crannogmen had great stamina, whereas Meera's stamina seemed to dwindle day by day as she grew larger. They caught up to Jon at Queenscrown, where he welcomed them to the fold, wrapping both he and Meera into warm embraces.

He and Meera sat with Jon, Sam, Tyrion, and Tormund around a table in his camp, discussing their next move.

"Jon, she managed to get half the Riverlander army here," Bran said, "We didn't even receive news that men were traveling up the Neck from Lord Howland."

"My father would have sent ravens," Meera insisted.

"I know Lord Howland is loyal, Meera," Jon said, rubbing his hands over his face at the news. "Sam thinks Sansa is shooting down all the ravens headed north. How many men does she have?"

"I think twenty-four thousand, all in all," Bran said.

"Even with the defections, I have but twelve thousand," Jon said with a sigh. "Six thousand, the full strength of my kingdom, are camped outside of Castle Black, on the far side of the Wall."

"How will you get them in?" Bran asked. "It would take too long to sail to Bear Island and into Mountain clan territory."

Jon smiled a little. "I have something to show you, brother." He had squires fetch a large chest, which he unlatched. He pulled out something wrapped in cloth, but even before he unwrapped it, Bran knew what it was. Jon had indeed visited the Three-Eyed Raven.

"You saw him, didn't you?"

"I did," Jon confirmed. "I don't know how you could have lived with something like that inside you, Bran, but I'm glad to see you're fine now. I met a Child of the Forest, too. She showed me where to find this."

The cloth came loose around the silvery horn, and Jon offered it to Bran for inspection. Bran's fingers trailed over the runes in the Old Tongue, and his fingers thrummed at the power held inside the horn.

"If you're going to tell me not to do it-" Jon began, but Bran silenced him with a shake of his head.

"Jon, the Wall's real power was that it was magic. When the Night King broke the Wall at Eastwatch, he broke the Wall all over. Just because it's standing doesn't mean that it has any power left to it. Yes, it's good enough at stopping people, but if the White Walkers ever were to return, it wouldn't stop them," he said. "The magic in the ice is gone."

"Not that it was particularly helpful in stopping the White Walkers before," Tyrion pointed out. "The final battle took place in front of Winterfell, not the Wall. "

Jon looked back at the horn, his fingers trailing over the engraved runes. "Then we bring it down," he said.


	14. Dark Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What you all have been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize, with the exception of two Brans, two Tyrions, and an Arya, this fic has been mostly from Jon and Rhaenys' POV. That trend will continue, but I will likely introduce southern POVs.
> 
> Postin a two-fer today because I might not get around to updating for another week and a half or so. Got a lot of grown-up big boy things I have to do before I can write some more, and I need to update my A:TLA fic too.
> 
> I am reading all your comments by the way, and I'll respond at some point. Thank you all for your kind words, feedback, suggestions, speculation, etc. - it makes me happy to know that you're all enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it. Stay safe and healthy folks.

**Jon - V**

Night gathered as the watch began.

Jon wrapped his cloak around him as the air grew thinner and colder as he was lifted up the Wall from the base of Castle Black. Half his forces were encamped on this side of the Wall, while the Free Folk contingent of his army was on the other side. He knew that as he arrived at the top, he would be able to see the fires and the smoke rising from the encroaching trees of the Haunted Forest that began in his kingdom.

He sighed. To date, his knowledge of kingship was nothing but war. He hoped that one day he would know some peace and be able to make something grow. He had spent his whole life killing and destroying.

 _We all enjoy what we're good at_ , echoed the voice of a dead woman in his head. He had come up here to find some clarity, for he knew he would not find it in sleep. Daenerys would be there, waiting for him with a smile, waiting for him to slip a knife between her ribs. Even in his waking hours, now, he found that he could not escape.

 _I don't_ , he said. He wondered if that was something he had inherited from his blood father.

Ruling he could bear. Killing... that was something he would be happy to never do again. And yet, even as he felt as such, he could not help but remember the bloodlust that had overcome him at Bear Island, driven by the sight of so many dead smallfolk and the ruins of the House Mormont and of Yara Greyjoy's face, which still made him reflexively reach for Longclaw at his side. No, he was the good dragon that Rhaegar supposedly had been, but he was also the hungry wolf that his mother was. They tempered each other, the wolf giving cunning and fury to the dragon, and the dragon tempering the wolf's hunger and mercilessness.

With a groan and a creak, the winch pulled him and the elevator up to the top of the wall, where he got off. Lost in thought, he had hardly noticed Sam there with him the whole time, but the large maester had not spoken much either. 

"Gilly and Little Sam, are they all right?" It was the only thing he could think of that wasn't embroiled in his personal turmoil. 

Sam nodded with a small smile, his jowls shaking as he did. "Aye, Bran and Lady Meera had them sent to the Neck. They're at Greywater Watch, with Lord Reed, in case... well. You know."

"I know, Sam," Jon said gruffly. The pair stepped into the walkway of the Wall, their torches lighting the way.

"Gods, I'd forgotten how hard it was to breathe up here," Sam said, huffing greatly. "There was a time I hardly would have noticed."

Jon felt the same, his gulps the same but somehow taking in less air here. "I don't bloody know how I defended this from Mance, if I'm honest."

"Well, if we're being honest, Stannis Baratheon really did save our arses after that night," Sam quipped, causing Jon to chuckle. 

"Aye, you're not lying. So many times, Sam, I feel like it could have all ended. Hells, one time it did. But somehow, when I'm up here... it seems distant."

"Are you going to miss it?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Jon said, and truth be told, he did not. For a thing that was so bound up in his history, once a dream of a glorious future, then a sign of humiliation, then a back-breaking duty he longed to be free of, in order to fight with Robb, to a responsibility he died for, it was not something he was fond of. It was not something he particularly cared for, but a part of him knew that it would ache to see it all come tumbling down.

"Does it make you feel better if I said I feel the same way?" Sam offered.

Jon looked at his friend with a lopsided grin. "Aye, I think it does."

Soft footfalls padded behind them, and Jon turned around to find Tyrion making his way over to them.

"What brings you here, Lannister?" Jon asked.

Tyrion revealed a full skin of wine under his cloak. "Libations. It's shit, but somehow that's rather fitting of the old place," Tyrion remarked. Jon chuckled and Sam grasped the proffered wineskin, staring at it for a second before uncorking it and taking a gulp.

"Gods, Lord Tyrion, it really is shit," Sam said, grimacing as the bitter liquid settled in his belly, handing it to Jon, who took a large gulp himself.

"Also, I did tell you I'd come to meet you at the Wall and piss off the edge of the world, for old time's sake. Though... I suppose it's not the edge of the world now, is it? It's home, beyond the Wall." Tyrion said. "I think I'll piss on the other side. Fuck Westeros."

The word settled heavily in Jon's stomach, sloshing around with the alcohol. He couldn't separate the warmth of the drink from the warmth of Tyrion's words.

Home. The only thing that needed defending. But was it just his kingdom, here? Was his duty only to the Free Folk and the refugees who'd made this place their home? His mind traveled to Bear Island, and he thought of the charred and desecrated corpses. He thought of the death and wanton destruction in King's Landing, and the wheel that Daenerys had wanted to break.

Aye, he loved her, and she may have considered herself different from the rest, but she wasn't, in the end.

_I never thought that dragons would exist again. No one did. The people who follow you know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe that you can make other impossible things happen. Build a world that’s different from the shite one they’ve always known. But if you use that to melt castles and burn cities, you’re not different; you’re just more of the same._

"I'll join you in a bit, my lord. I think I need a moment here," Jon said quietly. Tyrion nodded and took his wineskin back from him, walking away to the other side of the Wall.

"What is it, Jon?" Sam asked.

Jon did not reply, but he brandished Longclaw and stared at it for a while. The Mormonts had become inextricably tied to his house, and they had given their lives in defense of the world of men. Jon felt shame creep into his mind. They had stepped to their duties, and had given their lives. Jon wanted to run, and run, and run. He was being offered chance after chance to make it a better world. He could not bring himself to believe in himself like Daenerys had, nor did he want to, for he felt the path to madness lying in wait there. But he had to try. 

_You go on. You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of the shit as you can._

The faces of his dead brothers floated in front of him - first those of his blood, Robb and Rickon, but then also the ones that he chose by oath - Grenn, Pyp, and Edd. Good men, all of them, to the last.

"Do you think I was right to forsake my vows?" Jon asked, his eyes fixed on Longclaw's steel.

"Well, they are until death, and you did die," Sam said with a half-hearted smile, scratching his head. "But I still feel drawn to them. Not all of them obviously - the wife and children part is moot now."

"Why do you think that is?"

"We are the shield that guards the realms of men," Sam finished, voice full of conviction. "D'you think it was the part about holding no lands and fathering no children that gave me the strength to shove dragonglass into a White Walker? It was going to kill Gilly. And in that moment, all I could think about was her. All I could think about was that if I didn't guard the innocent, what use were my vows?" We are the shield, Jon."

"Then I make a new vow, here," Jon said. "I can't live the way I have, Sam. There are people I could help. There's so much bloody suffering in this world, and I could change it. I'm done running and hiding away from it. Maester Aemon said it was time to kill the boy and let the man be born, but I've been a boy 'til now, forsaking my duty." He took a deep breath and planted Longclaw into the snow, kneeling. 

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the guardian of the innocent. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realm of men. I pledge my life and honor to my people, for this night and all nights to come."

"Rise, King Aemon," Sam intoned, and Jon did. The two embraced warmly. "Long may you reign."

"Come, let's not leave Tyrion to dangle over the wall alone," Jon said, breaking the hug. "I could use a good piss."

* * *

When they arrived at the base of the elevator, inside Castle Black, Jon found many of the Lords of the North who had defected to his side waiting for him. He walked through them, thanking them all for their loyalty and support, speaking to each individual lord. He thanked Manderly for his unwavering loyalty since the Battle of the Bastards, and embraced Asher Forrester, inquiring after Gwyn's health, to which a red-cheeked Asher informed him that Gwyn was carrying the heir to both Ironrath and Highpoint. Some of the houses in the orbit of the Manderlys were there, too - Lockes, Woolfields, and others, as were the Tallhart brothers, Brandon and Beren. Witht hem was their cousin, Larence Snow, now Hornwood, with whom Jon spoke longer than most - both had been able to commiserate of their bastardy, even if Jon's was a false sort, and Larence looked up to Jon. As he finally spoke to and greeted each noble, he found that Meera was waiting for them. Jon's good cheer vanished as soon as he saw her face, for she looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

"What is it, my lady?" Jon asked, a familiar unsettledness gnawing at his stomach. Had something happened to Bran? 

"I... I cannot explain, Your Grace. Please, follow me. Bran wishes to see you. Someone has come."

"I can find my own way, Meera," Jon said, eyeing the woman's growing belly. "Don't trouble yourself, for my nephew or niece's sake."

"I should be there. I'll accompany you. They're waiting for you in your old Lord Commander's chambers."

_They?_

Meera led him, Sam, and Tyrion through the castle, towards their destination. A sense of foreboding crept into Jon's heart as he retraced the steps of his former life, walking through the halls and corridors that had become so familiar to him. His old wounds began to ache, as he felt the slip of the knife in his chest...

 _NO. I cannot think like that now. I cannot afford it_ , Jon chastised himself mentally. _I am not at risk of harm here, not with my family, not with my true friends._

Meera knocked on the oaken door of the Lord Commander's room, and Bran's voice bade them enter from the other side, muffled and quiet.

Jon opened the door and walked through. It was much dimmer here than in the hallway, which had many torches ensconced on the wall. There was a fire in the fireplace of the Lord Commander's room, but it was weak, mostly embers and smoke now. His eyes adjusted to the figures inside the room, one which he knew to be Bran sitting on his wheelchair, furs piled on him. He looked weary.

But when his gaze traveled to the second person, all the trepidation that was in his heart melted away, replaced only by a fear that he must surely be hallucinating from the lack of air atop the wall.

He rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand. "Gods, it can't be. Arya, is that you?"

The grey-eyed girl stood from her chair and stepped closer to him. Their dark, stormy eyes met, and Jon knew in that moment she was real. Like she had that day they had reunited after so long, she launched herself at him, and Jon caught her, embracing her in a powerful hold. His sister let out a most unladylike squeal of joy.

"Oh, Arya, it's so good to see you. But... how? Why? What are you doing here? When did you get back."

"Do you want answers to all of them at once, Jon? We'll be here for a while," Arya jested, as Jon lowered her back down. "You look good, brother. I see ruling suits you."

"I don't think so, but people won't stop bloody handing them to me, so I decided to wear it for once," Jon said. "Look at you. You look... alive."

Arya rolled his eyes. "Really, Jon? Is that the best you can say?"

Jon laughed, happier than he'd been in a long while. "Of course I can do better, but I'm glad you're here. I was afraid I'd never see you again."

"Well, now you have," Arya said. "Have a little bit more faith in me."

"Serves me right for underestimating Arya Stark of Winterfell," Jon said with a smile. He tore his eyes away from his sister reluctantly, to the third person who had been in the room.

Jon had not expected her to be absolutely stunning. The woman was one of the most beautiful he'd ever seen. From her olive complexion, she seemed to be Dornish, or perhaps Essosi. Her dark hair was wavy, almost curled like his, and she had deep dark eyes that bored into his own. Her face was beautiful. Her figure was on the more slender side, but she still filled out her woolen clothes well, though they looked out of place on her. She was a little taller than Arya, and she carried herself with grace, but her face was plastered with a look so wistful, Jon could have almost termed it jealousy. She had an intense stare, and it was fixed on him and Arya in a way he could not understand.

"I'm sorry, my lady, for my lack of decorum, but I'm overjoyed to see my sister." This seemed to elicit a lopsided smile from the woman. From the corner of his eye, he caught Tyrion staring intently at the woman as well, a frown slipping lower and lower onto his features. Did he happen to know this lady? "May I ask your name?"

The woman opened her mouth as if to answer, but Arya tugged at her sleeve and shook her head at them both, and the woman closed her jaw, a flicker of displeasure splaying across her face. Whoever she was, she seemed to trust Arya, but also wasn't afraid of her. Perhaps she was a friend Arya had made during her voyages.

"Jon, there's... there's a lot we have to tell you," Arya began, seeming unsure of herself, which was uncharacteristic of his incredibly bold sister.

"I agree, Jon. You should be seated for this," Bran said delicately. "Perhaps the room should be limited to family only."

"If it were up to me, I'd have the room with Jon myself," the woman declared boldly. "As it stands, they all need to hear. Every lord in Westeros does."

"It's better this way, Rhae," Arya said, speaking to the woman almost pleadingly. "I know you want to speak to him alone, but it's a bloody lot to take in."

_Rhae? What in seven hells?_

Again, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker pass through Tyrion's features so quickly that he wasn't even sure that he had seen them, but Tyrion clearly recognized this woman, whoever she was. Jon found his impatience mounting. 

"We don't have time, Arya. They all need to hear. We can't tiptoe around it anymore," retorted the woman fiercely. "We have to prepare. Jon has to see them."

"Damnit, Rhae, we have to break the news properly..."

 _Hear what? See what?_ "Arya and my lady Rhae, both of you speak plainly. What's going on?" Jon commanded.

"Daenerys Targaryen is alive!" Arya shouted in frustration, slamming her fist on the nearby table. Sam jumped at the noise, his eyes wide and frightful. Tyrion simply groaned and proceeded to drink more of the piss-poor wine he'd brought to the top of the Wall.

Jon felt as if someone had pulled out a rug from underneath him. The room seemed to spin around him.

_Daenerys Targaryen is alive._

_Dany's alive._

_Dany._

Silver hair and a charming smile floated into his mind's eye, and he relived that moment in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, over and over and over, as if the present had come to a halt and he had been thrown back in space and time to that horrible moment. Suddenly, it felt hard to breathe, and the walls were closing in on him. His cloak and brooch seemed to constrict the flow of air in his throat, and his hands clenched and unclenched of their own volition.

"Jon, please sit," Bran pleaded. Jon almost didn't hear him.

It was too much. He needed fresh air. Jon turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, heading out of the darkened hallways and through the courtyard, past the gate, and out of Castle Black.

* * *

There was a little pool, not far south of the castle, where he had taken to coming certain times during his reign as 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. It was not a godswood - there were no godswoods in a convenient range of the Castle, otherwise, the brothers would never have gone to make their vows beyond the Wall, by the Haunted Forest. But there was a large oak there that did remind him of the heart tree in Winterfell, with its own little clear pool underneath the boughs. It was almost like home, and it was one of the reasons Jon had sought it out in the first place.

Now, even in the dark of night, he let the place pull him in and soothe him. He sat on a rock by the pond's side, brandishing Dark Sister instead of Longclaw for some reason. He pulled out a cloth and began to polish it, clearing his mind of any thought or idea save for the need to wipe the sword. If he let in any conscious thought, Dany would sneak in too.

He wasn't sure how long he repeated the same mechanical motion, but it was long enough for him to hear footsteps nearby, and soft voices whispering to one another. One he recognized, by pure instinct and memory, as Arya's, but he could not make out the other, though he knew it was a feminine voice. Jon didn't tear his eyes away from Dark Sister.

Footsteps - one pair - drew closer to him, and someone sat next to him. He knew instinctively that it wasn't Arya. Arya was almost no wasted motion, purposeful, and lightning-quick. This person was measured but still somehow unsure and filled with trepidation.

He still didn't look up from the sword.

"I'm sorry, Jon," the woman - Rhae, Arya had called her - whispered to him. "I was so focused on telling you that... I didn't really think about how it would affect you. I know you and Daenerys Targaryen have history."

The name shook him back out of the monotony he had exiled his mind into for refuge. "How can you know she's alive?" Jon croaked. "I saw her die. I killed her. I saw the light leave her eyes, and all that was left was a look of betrayal."

"I saw her return," the woman said softly. "I know you don't have reason to believe me, but Arya does. And I'm telling the truth. I didn't come here all the way from Asshai to jest about this."

Jon forced himself to breathe normally and looked up to meet the woman's eyes, realizing with a start that they were not dark black or grey as he had assumed, but a deep violet instead. They truly were mesmerizing, but they reminded him horribly of Daenerys."Who are you?" he asked. She was beautiful and sad, like someone who had been resigned to far too many unfavorable outcomes in her life.

She smiled at him, and it oddly made Jon's heart flutter to see her melancholy broken with a sign of happiness, however slight. It was a curious feeling, and he wasn't sure where it had arisen from, so he buried it. "I'm not sure you'll believe me, I think. Perhaps you'll trust your sister. Arya?"

Arya stepped closer to both of them, and Jon saw a singular tear creep down Arya's face in the moonlight, which chilled him to his core. Arya didn't cry. Arya screamed, shouted, fussed, yelled, cursed, but she did not cry.

"I wish you didn't have to learn everything like this, Jon. I wish you had a normal upbringing, and that you knew who you were and who your kin were the right way. I wish it didn't have to be like this," Arya said, her voice choked. The strangeness of it caused a lump in Jon's throat, for it was so long since he'd seen Arya be this vulnerable. "Tell him, Rhae. He needs to know."

Rhae's hand found his, and even in the coolness of night, it was warm to the touch, and soft. She grasped his hand soothingly, and their eyes met, storm-grey on violet.

"My name is Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar and Elia," she spoke. "I'm your sister, Jon."


	15. Gift Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Rhaenys exchange gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, we've been concentrated almost entirely on the North for quite a few chapters, but I can't just leave Jon and Rhaenys on a cliffhanger. 
> 
> Upcoming chapters WILL explore what's going on down South.
> 
> This chapter took forever. Not because I didn't know where to go with it, but the dialogue just wasn't coming out. I rewrote it like four times.

**Rhaenys - V**

"I've always wanted to see this," Rhaenys said. Jon didn't answer, and she supposed it was too much to expect him to be exuberant at her revelation, but it still stung her that he was not.

She supposed it was also true that he had not rejected her out of hand. But they - mostly Arya - managed to convince him to come back from his clearing sanctuary to Castle Black, if for no other reason than it was not safe for a king to be out and alone during wartime. Rhaenys had felt a hot burst of jealousy at how Arya was able to scold Jon, and the familiarity with which they spoke. He had barely said a word since, and it was too much for her to bear. When they got back to Castle Black, she grabbed Jon by the arm and told them they needed to talk. He simply nodded mutely and led her to the elevator.

The elevator cranked up along the Wall, taking both of them up slowly. They leaned on opposite ends of the short wall-railings as if getting any closer would cause irreparable harm.

Jon's eyes never left her, though, and she felt as if she was being appraised. The thought sent an entirely inexplicable tingle down her spine, but she knew from Jon's gaze that it was not that sort of undressing. He was gauging her, getting the measure of her from her words, her stance, her actions - the analysis of a swordsman on the battlefield, the sort of analysis that would serve a king well.

She in turn regarded him, and at least that was one area in which she had not been disappointed. Arya had portrayed a poor likeness of him - the general features were all correct, of course, but she had downplayed how truly comely he was - even words such as 'pretty' or 'beautiful' did not feel out of place when describing him. He had dark black curls, a long face, a scruffy, roguish beard, and grey eyes that she was delighted to find had an indigo tinge to them, no doubt his dragon blood seeping through. Like her, he took after his mother's kin, more Stark than Targaryen, just as she was more Martell. That, at least, was one thing they had in common, along with the curls.

"You were here for how long?"

Jon finally tore his eyes away, peering over the banister and down hundreds of feet at Castle Black. "It was my home for five years."

"Gods. Arya said it used to be colder."

"Aye," Jon grunted.

"How did you survive?" Rhaenys asked.

"The Watch breeds tough bastards. Either you adapt or you die. And I didn't feel like dying."

Rhaenys hummed in disagreement. "But you did."

"So did you," Jon said. She winced at that, and something in Jon's tone softened to hear it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it harshly. I suppose I'm curious how you did survive."

"Would you believe me if I told you it was all a blur? It was just after my second nameday. Aegon was three months old. I found out much of it later from our supporters - my mother had us smuggled out of King's Landing in secret from the Mad King, hidden even from our Dornish relatives. I remember vaguely making it to Essos, and then the next thing I remember was that we were in the custody of the Red Priests, kept hidden from the world at large. I suppose my mother, bereft allies, was forced to rely on whoever she could. The Red Priests were likely the only ones willing."

Jon said nothing to that for a while, and only the grating noise of the winch pulling them upwards was audible. "I'm sorry about what happened to your mother," he said finally, cracking the silence.

"And I'm sorry for what happened to yours," Rhaenys said. "Truly. Arya told me about what your friend Samwell found in Oldtown, that Father set aside Mother for Lyanna Stark, but I've heard stories of my mother. If Rhaegar did something like that, it was with her knowledge. I was told the birth of Aegon was hard on her, and Father was obsessed with his three heads of the Dragon. He wouldn't have been the first Targaryen to take two wives, I suppose. I bear no ill will against her."

Jon nodded his head. "So... Aegon."

"Yes. Our brother still lives."

"And why is he not here, fleeing from the wrath of Daenerys?" Jon fixed her with his inquisitive eyes, but she could see in them that he had already guessed at the answer.

"Aegon believes in taking his birthright like his namesake. His intention was to marry Daenerys and then me, and then come for the throne," Rhaenys said, her voice acerbic.

"Does he know that in this situation, Daenerys is Aegon the Conqueror?"

Rhaenys laughed sardonically. "I thought the same thing when she came walking out of that pyre, naked, reborn. Aegon doesn't see it. I suppose Daenerys is content to keep up that fiction for so long as it serves her purpose."

"And her purpose is to..."

"Punish those responsible for her death, and to finish her 'liberation' of Westeros. I suppose you know what that entails."

"Aye. I saw her 'liberation' of King's Landing from the clutches of Cersei Lannister. I was there when she and Drogon burned the entire city to ash, setting off the Mad King's last remaining clutches of wildfire below the city. Thousands and thousands died that day. The only thing they were liberated from were their lives."

"That's why you killed her?" Rhaenys asked.

"Aye." Jon grimaced. "I didn't want to see it, the pit she was falling into. I could have helped her. Instead, I left her alone and I let her fall into madness."

Rhaenys snorted. "Horseshit."

Jon looked at her, not with offense or anger, but amusement. "Sorry?"

"It's not your responsibility to look after a madwoman, and it's not your fault that she murdered thousands." Jon arched an eyebrow at her, and she scoffed. "Don't look so scandalized. Did you think I was going to make excuses for her? What she did was monstrous, and her behavior to date has not inspired any reason for me to believe I'm mistaken."

"I didn't know what you would think about her. We're not exactly... a normal family," Jon said.

Rhaenys laughed. It was a good joke, even if unintentional. "We're not much of a family at all. Moons ago I thought there were only two. Then I found out about another brother from across the world who rallied the living against an army of the dead and an undead aunt hells-bent on ravaging our homeland." Jon gave her a ghost of a smile, the corners of his lips tugging ever so slightly upwards, and she chose to ignore why her heart leaped like an acrobat at that.

The winch came to a halt, finally having pulled them all the way up. Jon unbolted the door and led her onto an icy walkway. She was glad for her good sturdy northern boots - they were not beautiful, but they made the top of the Wall traversable. The wind did not whistle here; it howled, swirling all around her, screaming unformed words and names into the night. Much of the Wall was unlit, but Jon used the torch he had carried to light some of the lanterns and torches ensconced against the battlements.

"I've never seen anything quite like this," Rhaenys breathed. "This place is magnificent."

"Most people have an entirely different reaction to being up here," Jon remarked, leading the way to the edge of the Wall. Rhaenys followed after, her footsteps ringing with both trepidation and excitement. For so long, she had only read of her homeland - the great sights, such as Oldtown, King's Landing, Winterfell, the Water Gardens in Dorne, and the Wall - and now she was here, living out the words of her precious books that she had left behind in Asshai. All that she had learned was coming to life before her eyes, and she could scant believe it.

"Most people don't spend their lives in the custody of priests in a city of sorcerers, Jon. I wasn't sure I'd ever see this place, and now I am. It's a dream come true," she said. "Can I peer off the edge? "

"Aye. Come closer, to where I'm standing. Watch your step, and make sure you don't go further than I am."

Rhaenys inched closer to the crenellation atop the wall, where Jon had lit a brazier. She felt vertigo overtake her as she finally mustered the courage to peer over the edge, into the blackness.

When she had been going up the Wall, it was easy to focus anywhere other than the structure itself, or the ground, and she had ignored just how high up she was. Up here, it was inescapable. The ground felt like it was miles away, trees that must have been gigantic looked like little more than ants from seven hundred feet up on high. She took a step back, and her foot must have found bad snow, for she suddenly felt her foot give way as she lost her balance -

But before anything else could happen, Jon had caught her in his arms, and she was wrapped up in a warm embrace, her face buried in the furs of his cloak and his chest. He smelled of crushed pine and burning wood - an altogether pleasant scent, she found.

"I told you to watch your step," he said sternly. Rhaenys could not see his face, but she could imagine his brow furrowed as he scolded her.

"Mmhmph," Rhaenys said into his chest. He let go of her then, helping her to her feet, and when she found his eyes she blushed furiously. "Sorry," she said.

"You're alright. Just try not to fall to your death again," he said drily. "I'd hate to lose you after just having met you."

Jon's words caused her blush to redden. "I didn't know you were so pleased to have met me," she said, verbally poking at his defenses, built as high as the Wall itself.

His mouth turned upwards, but whether into a grimace or a grin, she could not discern. "Were you expecting me to hate you?"

"I wasn't sure what I was expecting, to be honest," Rhaenys said, truthfully. "I had hoped for it to be pleasant, I suppose."

"It's not unpleasant," Jon said. "You seem alright."

"You have my thanks for that ringing endorsement," Rhaenys said icily.

Jon groaned. "I didn't mean for it to sound so milquetoast, Rhaenys. I don't know you well, but I'd like to."

Rhaenys gave him a lopsided smile. "You'll have the time you need to. And I'd like to get to know you."

"Good, because I suppose you're my heir now."

"What?" Rhaenys said, startled. "That's not how this works. If anything... Aegon would be your heir."

Jon snorted. "From what you've just told me, Aegon intends to be at war and conquering Westeros. I'd be daft to make him my heir in anything. The Free Folk might not recognize you, but I'll make it so that you'll at least be head of House Targaryen if anything happens to me. Better you than Daenerys of Aegon by default, anyway."

Rhaenys drew closer to him and put her hand on his arm. "While I'm flattered at the trust, Jon, I'd prefer it if you didn't make this reunion about the possibility of you dying. Surely we'll have time for the macabre later?"

He huffed. "If Arya trusts you, that's good enough for me. We'll speak more of it later. Come, here, closer to the edge again. No, don't worry, I've got you." She followed along, clutching to his hand, fearful of another slip. "Look over the edge, to the treeline. That's the-"

"The Haunted Forest. The Kingdom Beyond the Wall," Rhaenys said in awe. "And those shapes, there, far off to the north-west, those are the Frostfangs?"

"Aye," Jon said, chuckling in surprise. "Were you a member of the Night's Watch when I wasn't looking?"

Rhaenys shook her head, slightly embarrassed. "You'll have to forgive the childlike wonder. I read so much about Westeros. Books were my refuge from the cage of Asshai. To see the places in life with my own eyes, I've only read about in ink... it's like a dream come true."

"Well, I'm glad you've seen it because come the battle with Sansa, it won't exist anymore."

"What?" Rhaenys said. Surely she must have misheard him.

"I've got a way to bring down the Wall."

Now she was sure she had misheard him. Jon led her away from the edge, towards an alcove built into the battlements. There was room for a firepit there and wood, and even in the difficult environment at the top of the Wall, she was amazed at how quickly Jon was able to strike a fire. Soon, they were being warmed, and the alcove kept them protected from the worst of the wind. Jon arranged two old stools around the fire, and the two of them sat.

"You're going to... bring down the Wall," Rhaenys said, still struck by the insanity of his words. "This structure has been standing for-"

"Thousands of years, I know. But it no longer has a purpose. The White Walkers are gone. All it serves is to create a border between my kingdom and Sansa's, and it's a border that grants entry only to Sansa. Aye, I control some of the castles on the western side, but I don't have the men to man or hold the wall. Sansa does. She could isolate us, attack us with impunity from a number of different pathways. The Wall was broken at Eastwatch - she's plugged it with a manmade castle, but even so, to destroy that would require a long siege and moving my army into one location for an extended period of time."

"During which, Sansa could march troops through any of the other castles and encircle you."

"Precisely," Jon said. She thought she sensed a little satisfaction in his tone at her understanding of the issue. "By removing the Wall, we open ourselves to her troops, but we also open the North to ours. She'll have to meet us in battle because I know her lands; she doesn't know mine. I can send small bands of raiders all over the North to lands belonging to her loyalist lords."

Rhaenys shifted on the stool. "What about the Ironborn?"

Jon scratched his beard. "With the number of supplies we destroyed on Bear Island, I don't think the Greyjoys will be able to send troops in any real numbers up along the Milkwater. For now, we have only Sansa to deal with." He rubbed his head, clearly weary. "Gods, and now you tell me Daenerys is going to invade with Aegon. Every man I kill on Sansa's side is a man I could have used in the war to come. I had planned to let her garrison the wall against me, let her believe we were going to siege down Castle Black, and then bring the Wall down on her head. But I can't bloody well do that now, can I?"

"You need men. You have to defeat her, but not so resoundingly that you can't conscript the survivors."

Jon sighed. "As it stands, we're more likely to be the losing party."

"What if you tell her about Daenerys's return? That she and Aegon are planning to invade?" Rhaenys said.

"I'm only afraid that would make her more determined to defeat me. She'd probably think I was on Daenerys' side," Jon said. He looked sorrowful.

"I've never asked, and I've only ever heard about it from Arya, but I'm sorry about what happened between you and Sansa. To have that sort of betrayal and undermining coming from a sister, well... I can only imagine." Truth be told, Rhaenys felt a little white-hot flash of rage when Arya had told her about Sansa's orchestration of events after the Great War and up to the Great Council. She had manipulated Jon and Daenerys perfectly against each other, using Jon's secret of his birth. She had violated an oath they had both made in front of Brandon and Jon. She scoffed. "I suppose I'm not one to talk, considering what I'm doing to Aegon."

Something inexplicable crept into Jon's eyes. _How must he feel, facing a war with a sister he once loved, and then after, a brother he never knew?_

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at Jon. "Don't tell me that you're planning on supporting Aegon's claim, somehow. Arya told me how you are. Just because he was firstborn doesn't mean he's best suited to rule."

"I don't know how he is. You know better than I," Jon said. A small smile crept on to his face. "But no, I'm not planning on throwing my weight behind Aegon. Certainly not while Daenerys is with him."

Rhaenys sighed, and she stared at the kernels of snow crunching below her boots. "Our family seems to be destined to tear itself apart whenever given the opportunity. A house of dragons tends to self-cannibalize."

"We're not just dragons, though, you and I, are we?" Jon said. Rhaenys' head shot up. "Blood of the First Men runs in my veins. Blood of the Rhoynar in yours. Maybe we could make something different of our house." He reached behind him to where the second sword of his was strapped. Rhaenys had marked both of them - the one he used strapped to his belt was Longclaw, the one she had heard of from Arya, who had excitedly spoken of it like a sword of legend. Rhaenys knew well all the valyrian steel blades of Westeros from her books - Longclaw was not one of the famous ones, though Jon's exploits with it had given it more fame than many of the others. But she had a creeping feeling about the second one, the one strapped to his back. The pommel was familiar to her from descriptions, but she hardly dared to hope beyond hope that it was what she thought.

But when he pulled it out, there could be no more doubt. It was exactly as it had been described in the histories by Archmaester Perestan. "That's... that's Dark Sister, Jon. Where in seven hells did-"

"It was here, beyond the Wall. You've heard of Bloodraven, no doubt?"

"Yes. The Great Bastard of Aegon the Unworthy, who killed Daemon Blackfyre, and served as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He took Dark Sister and was never seen again."

Jon laughed. "Turns out, he was seen again. By my brother Bran, of all people."

Rhaenys frowned. "That can't be possible. Bloodraven lived long ago. He disappeared in 252, and he was already near eighty by then."

"Bloodraven became the vessel for an Old God."

Rhaenys couldn't help but laugh, but Jon's voice was deadly serious, and his lips quirked into a smile so small that Rhaenys knew he believed himself to be telling the truth, and all mirth disappeared from her voice.

"You're serious," she said.

"I assume Arya told you that Bran was the Three-Eyed Raven."

"She did. And when I met Brandon, he said that he was no longer-"

"Aye, no longer. He's not a vessel anymore, but he was. So was Bloodraven. Bloodraven died with the Old God still in him, and then the Old God passed onto Bran. After the defeat of the Walkers, there was no reason for him to be in a mortal vessel anymore, so he left. Bran is still a powerful Greenseer, but it's not the same. I met the Old God under a weirwood beyond the Wall. We spoke. He gave me the sword and a horn that can bring down the Wall."

Rhaenys hardly believed her ears, but Jon was so serious that she couldn't help but know that he believed his own words. And truly, if there could be dragons again in the world, then why not the wild gods of the North? She shivered at the thought. She'd seen a few weirwoods since her arrival at Eastwatch, and one heart tree as well. The sight had left her haunted. She knew there were spirits and magics harnessed by sorcerers in Asshai, but much of that felt manufactured, controlled, and engineered by humans. The gods here were wild things, not controlled by man, but simply a part of the land, of nature itself.

"The sword is yours," he said, sheathing it again and offering it to her in its scarlet scabbard.

"I can't take this," Rhaenys said. "Never mind that I don't know how to wield a sword... give it to Arya, she could use it."

Jon shook his head. "Arya is well suited by Needle, and she has her valyrian dagger. Besides, the balance and length are all wrong for someone of her height. Come, stand, let's see how it is in your arms." He got to his feet, and Rhaenys hesitantly followed. She unsheathed the sword falteringly, staring at it its glory. If the blade could speak, she was sure it would hiss and reject her.

 _No dragon you are,_ it would say, in a voice that sounded awfully like Aerys', _and you deserve not to wield me, Rhoynish filth._

"Stop looking at it like it doesn't belong in your hands, Rhaenys," Jon commanded sternly. He unsheathed Longclaw. "Now, hold it like such." He demonstrated a grip for her."

"That doesn't look right, not on your sword," she commented, attempting to emulate it. She had to admit that it did seem to suit Dark Sister, however. 

"That's because Longclaw is a bastard sword," he said, adjusting his feet and motioning for her to follow. "Dark Sister is a longsword for one hand - no, no, hold on,' he huffed. He sheathed Longclaw and stood behind her. When his hand touched her elbow, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Easy. Loosen up, don't keep your frame so tight, you'll never be able to swing, parry, and counterswing with ease if you're tense. Now, move your back foot here, your front foot like this, and your elbows..." he adjusted her positioning, his hands and feet nudging at hers. Again, his frame was pressed against hers, and she couldn't help but feel the rush of blood in her veins as her heart began to pound furiously.

"There, I think you've got it," Jon said, stepping back as if to admire his work. "You've never been trained before, have you? Give it a swing."

Rhaenys did, but it was a half-hearted attempt, with her heartbeat still furious from Jon's earlier touch. Jon guffawed heartily and she gave him a foul look.

"Don't bloody laugh, you've been doing this all your life," she muttered. "This is my first time."

"I probably didn't look much different when I was six," Jon said, still chuckling. "I'll give you this, you're a sight better than Sam when he first started training. We'll turn you into a swordsman yet. You're slender, but you have strength, and the sword is perfect for your height and limbs. In the meantime, Dark Sister is yours, nonetheless." 

Rhaenys still looked at the sword as if it didn't belong to her, but she sheathed it and slung it over her back, just like Jon had. 

"Well, I have something to show you," she said. "Since we're in the mood for a family exchange of gifts."

* * *

"Where in seven hells are you taking me?" Jon huffed.

"It's not far, lazy," Rhaenys teased. "After you took off in a huff, I had half a mind to find you and drag you here, but you barely spoke on the ride back to Castle Black."

"And so you didn't think to mention it?" Jon said. 

Rhaenys bit her lip, debating whether she should reveal her feelings. "Honestly, I was a little afraid of your reaction."

Jon fell silent at that, and they continued their ride in silence. Rhaenys led, taking him towards the clearing where they had hidden the dragons until further notice. The thought of seeing Eliarron again sent her spirits soaring. The dragon deserved to be free, and she longed to set him free of the crate he'd been put in since their flight from Asshai. In the intervening months, the dragons had grown larger - certainly nowhere near large enough to ride yet, but they were larger than cats, certainly, now the size of a hound. 

"I'm sorry if it's strange, meeting a sibling you never knew," Jon said quietly. His tone was so low, she wasn't sure he had spoken at first.

"You're doing the same thing," she pointed out. "We don't have a sibling relationship. It's not easy to bond like that when we weren't there for each other's childhoods."

"Have you ever considered it?" Jon asked. "What life would have been like, if we had all grown up in the Red Keep? If Rhaegar had beat Robert Baratheon at the Trident?"

 _Rhaegar, not Father_ , she noted. _Even now, even though he seems to have embraced his Targaryen name, he still thinks of Ned Stark as his father._ While she was grateful that the Starks had kept her blood hidden and safe, she still felt bitter when she thought of how Eddard Stark had willingly let her brother go to the Wall, denying him his birthright, even though she knew logically, it was a safe path for Jon. Eddard Stark, she knew, wouldn't have cared about a southern throne - he simply would have wanted his sister's son kept safe, even if it meant he lost any birthright he may have been entitled to. And with the state of the realm at that time, who could have blamed him? There was no clear path for a Targaryen restoration. The logic behind it didn't salve the bitterness any.

"I would have been wed to Aegon, I think. Father likely would have betrothed you to Daenerys," she said. "Perhaps Uncle Viserys wouldn't have grown into a madman. He was said to have been a sweet boy before he became cruel. Grandmother would have doted on you as she did me and Aegon."

Jon's face fell at the mention of Daenerys, and Rhaenys felt her own heart crack for him. The Daenerys he knew and loved, however, was long gone - and she knew it was important that Jon accept that fact, lest he hesitate when the time came. 

"You loved her, didn't you?" she asked.

"Aye," Jon said, spurring his horse further ahead. "She was..."

"Beautiful," Rhaenys finished. "Recall that I've seen her. She's a true dragon - silver hair, purple eyes, a legendary beauty like out of a song."

"It wasn't that," Jon said with a scoff. "I don't have silver hair or purple eyes and Rhaegal still took me as his rider. Being a dragon has nothing to do with how you look." His eyes found hers, and they felt as if they were staring into her soul. "Just because you don't look exactly like one doesn't mean you aren't a dragon either."

With those words, Rhaenys felt a heavy weight lift from her shoulders. She had never voiced her inadequacies to Aegon - how could Aegon, the silver prince, the perfect image of a Targaryen, ever understand? Daenerys never would, either. But Jon was different - like her. And the fact that he understood her fears becalmed her.

"I loved her because she wanted to do better by people in this world, and that's a rare quality in a ruler. Until she began to lose her mind, I knew she believed it. But she also believed that the throne was hers by right and by blood. In the end, she had a choice between her birthright and her mission, and she chose the throne. She was just more of the same," he said, sighing. 

"And what about you, Jon? If you had dragons, if you had the throne, would you do right by people? I'm not a liberator. All I wanted was to come home, and now I'm home. But I can't unsee what I saw. The Red Priests burned a hundred people alive to bring Daenerys back into this world. Aegon let it happen. I can't in good conscience stand by when that fate is what awaits the rest of Westeros."

"Do you remember Lord Varys?" Jon asked suddenly.

"Yes. Bald man. I only learned later that he was the Master of Whispers for Grandfather, for the Usurper, for Joffrey, and even for Daenerys for a while."

"Daenerys had him killed for treason. You know that saying about Targaryens, and the gods flipping a coin? He told me that he was quite certain about how my coin had landed. And now I'm sure where yours is, too."

Rhaenys shook her head. "And what if I'm a brilliant liar, Jon? Have you considered that?"

"The thing about being honest is that you get better at seeing when others aren't," Jon said. "I don't think you're a liar."

They arrived at the clearing where she and Arya had stashed the dragons. Rhaenys dismounted, and Jon followed after her, glancing around with curiosity.

"What, nervous that I've led you out here alone?" Rhaenys teased. Jon scowled in response.

"After seeing how you handled a sword up at the top of the Wall, I'm not particularly afraid," he said gruffly. Rhaenys laughed.

"What if I was simply pretending that I didn't know how to wield a sword?" She beamed at him with a twinkle in her eye, and he couldn't suppress the smile that teased his features. "Well, fortunately for you, I've not come here to challenge you to a duel. Come, this way."

She led him around a thicket of trees, and Jon paused as the croaking of the dragons greeted him. He looked at her curiously, and Rhaenys tugged his hand to lead him along. 

When the crates came into view, Jon stopped in his tracks. Rhaenys let go and ran to the crates, undoing the latch on Eliarron's crate first. The little ochre dragon burst out, croaking and burbling happily at the return of his mother. 

"Hello, little one," Rhaenys cooed. "It's good to see you again. I've brought someone along for you to meet. He's a dragon, just like us. Why don't we introduce him to your brother?" Eliarron simply tilted his head at her, regarding her quizzically. 

"That's... that's a dragon," Jon whispered hoarsely.

"Astute observation," Rhaenys said, smirking. "Eliarron is mine, of course. I knew as soon as he came out of his egg, with his Martell colors. A Dornish dragon, just like me. He has a brother, you know."

Realization dawned on Jon's face, as Rhaenys let Eliarron down on the ground. The dragon found his way towards Jon, regarding him with curiosity, while Rhaenys undid the latch on the other dragon's crate. The white dragon did not come forth immediately; at first, he only poked out his snout, before taking a few breaths, as if paranoid about his surroundings. Then, he came out of the crate cautiously, moving forward towards Jon, whose eyes had met his. Rhaenys watched the two become entirely enraptured with one another, and she knew that every feeling she'd had about the white dragon was justified. He was waiting for someone to bond with. He was meant to be Jon's.

"I've taken to calling him Ghost," she offered, "but that was before I learned you had beaten me to it with your direwolf. Unless you wish for a confusing set of bonded animals, you may want to give him a different name."

"He's..." Jon trailed off, apparently at a loss for words. The dragon and Jon approached each other, and Jon held out an ungloved hand as he drew close, placing it on the snout and jaw of the dragon. He leaned into it, rubbing his scales against Jon's hand. Rhaenys watched the two and knew that the bond had become iron, almost immediately.

"Aegon has one too," she said. "But now, so do you."

Jon did not take his eyes off the dragon, but he spoke anyway. "This could be a disaster. Another Dance."

Rhaenys sighed. "The notion tortured me all the way from Asshai to here, but we don't have a choice, Jon. We can either fight against Daenerys and Aegon, or we let them win - and they'll subject everyone to disaster anyway. Aegon cannot restrain her, Jon. He simply can't. He might not be evil, he might not be mad, but he has thrown in with Daenerys. We have no choice." 

"Then we fight," Jon said. "I'm not an idiot. Daenerys will come for my people, for the North, for my family, if I don't. It's not a choice at all."

Rhaenys nodded. "Good. Have you thought of a name? Not that I'm pressuring you right now-"

"Lyagar," Jon said, without hesitation. "After my mother and father. That's his name."

Rhaenys thought it was a fine name indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some odds and ends:
> 
> Tyrion is, in book canon, only about 7 years older than Rhaenys. He would have only had a faint recollection of her, if at all. However, in the show canon, he is 39 by the Great Council of 305 AC, and of course, Robert's Rebellion occured two years earlier in the show (to allow Jon/Dany etc. to be 16 instead of 14). When I retroactively apply those dates to the timeline, Tyrion would have been about 13-14 when Robert's Rebellion broke out, and thus would have much better memory of those events, the circumstances, etc. He likely would have known of Princess Rhaenys' and Prince Aegon's physical description, and of course, as his father was the man who allegedly ordered their deaths, he would have been far more cognizant of who they were, and thus, Tyrion would be the first to piece together Rhaenys' identity, as he did in the previous chapter, excepting Bran and Meera, who both learned off screen (off page?).
> 
> Point number 2: Many of you in the comments have mentioned Jon bringing down the Wall on Sansa's forces. While that would normally have been the plan, the problem is that my version of Jon would probably recognize that it's not smart to write off 20,000 fighting men that could be used against a foreign invasion. Better to rout and recruit the remainder than to completely kill by crushing them under the Wall.


	16. The Young Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History repeats itself at a different river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of stuff south of the Neck, for once. More Southern stuff coming, but first we'll probably have the Jon-Sansa showdown you guys are all waiting for. Consider this a military appetizer of sorts.

**Davos - I**

"How many are there?" Gendry asked impatiently. The Storm King's blue eyes were ablaze even more than usual, and his fingers tapped on the shaft of his warhammer without cessation.

Sunlight streamed through the billowing flaps of the yellow and black tent. Davos let the salt spray of the sea waft into his nose, even from the cliffs above. The smell was strong here - not unpleasant, but rough, honest, everything about the open water that Davos loved.

"Three, maybe four thousand, Your Grace," said Lord Ralph Buckler. Davos forced his attention back onto the men in front of him. Buckler was a squat, stout man, with a wispy brown beard and more chins than one ought to have, but he was no green lord when it came to soldiering. Davos knew the man's portly appearance belied a reliable mind. "But with the number of ships the Bastard of Driftmark has around the bay, he'll be ferrying in more thousands soon. I expect with the number of sellswords and adventurers he's managed to get onto his side, he'll be able to muster fifteen, maybe twenty thousand men.

Davos cleared his throat, interrupting. "Forgive me, Lord Buckler." He turned to the small, shifty-eyed man next to him. "Lord Fell, do we know whether Aurane Waters is acting as a proxy of Lord Velaryon?"

Lord Borros Fell, their master of whispers, shook his head. Lightning flashed outside the tent - sunny rains were frequent in the Stormlands and southern Crownlands - and the ensuing thunderclap caused Lord Fell to jump in his seat in discomfort. Out of politeness, Davos pretended not to notice. "Our ears have not reported anything of the sort," said Lord Fell. His voice was squeaky and grating, but he was better than competent at his job, and as such, he was tolerated. "As it turns out, the Bastard of Driftmark seems to be operating without the consent or guidance of his Velaryon relations."

"Lord Monterys is but a boy of 13 namedays, but his father Lord Monford died fighting for your house on the Blackwater, Your Grace," chimed in Lord Selwyn Tarth. "I cannot imagine the boy would throw away his former loyalty-"

"The Velaryons were loyal to the dragons once, and then they were loyal to the Baratheons," grunted Lord Clifford Swann, a heavyset man in his mid-thirties. Stocky and square, he was a massive man, more muscle than fat, all soldier - much better than the coward Gulian Swann who had refused to support Stannis. Clifford had fought for the false Baratheons, but he was a man of his word, and Davos had advised Gendry to restore him to Stonehelm over Donnell Swann, never mind Balon who had died in King's Landing during Daenerys' attack. "But it was only because the Baratheons sat the Iron Throne. His Grace is the Storm King. The crownlanders have no loyalty to Storm's End."

"Far be it for us to judge a man's loyalties," muttered Ronnet Connington. Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats - many of the Stormlander lords had been less than singular in their allegiance during the War of the Five Kings. But Davos cleared his throat to gather everyone's attention. For the good of Gendry's reign, it would not do for old wounds and grudges to be allowed to fester. Lands and titles had been handed out - greater for those who had chosen one side and stuck to it, lesser for those who had waffled, but the Stormlands had much-unoccupied land after the devastation of the war. 

"My lords, perhaps we should focus on the matter at hand rather than matters of the past. What we do know, as everyone here can account for Lord Fell's reliability in his job, is that Aurane Waters has landed in Blackwater Bay and has proclaimed himself King of the Crownlands. He has an army of twenty thousand, mostly sellswords and pirates, at his back. Some of the Crownlander lords have petitioned for our help, as they cannot fight the Riverlords and Aurane Waters at the same time."

"Tell the Crownlanders to bend the knee," snorted Connington, staring at the Crownlander emissary, who had remained quiet during the discussion between the Stormlords.

"I concur," said Tarth. "They should not be aided for free. Fealty would be an acceptable exchange."

All eyes turned to the only man who had not yet spoken, not since first delivering his message. 

"Well, my lord. Have the others given you leave to speak on their behalf?" Gendry ceased his tapping and stood, looking the man straight in the eye.

The sandy-haired man stood straight and looked him in the eye. "I have conferred with my fellow lords, Your Grace. Every house south of the Blackwater, including us Masseys, will bend the knee if you come to our aid. We served the Stags once - we will serve again. But I will not bend the knee to some false Velaryon sellsail scum," Lord Criston Massey said, his voice burning. 

Rumbles of assent filled the tent, but Davos interrupted. "Lord Massey, what of the houses north of the Blackwater?"

Massey shrugged. "I will not lie, Your Grace. It is far more difficult to say what the lords fighting the Riverlanders will do or say. Though I have heard as of late, the raids from the Riverlords have lessened. Rumors abound that Edmure Tully has marched north to aid Queen Sansa in her war against the..." Massey trailed off. "This King Beyond the Wall, Your Grace, I have heard tell that he is a friend of yours."

Gendry gave a curt nod. "He is. I had a gift sent to him for the wars to come. Our ears in the North have indicated that Queen Sansa marches for the Wall and to battle with King Aemon."

Some of the Stormlords looked around in distaste. "Forgive me, Your Grace," said Connington, "but... is it actually true? I know you sent my boy as an emissary, but I never paid mind to rumors."

"Yes," said Davos. "As you know, I served as his Hand, once. Jon Snow was nothing if not honest and honorable. The proof presented in the North was not numerous, but it was undeniable. Jon Snow was born Aemon Targaryen. If there was an Iron Throne still, he'd be heir to it."

Gendry nodded. "I fought alongside Jon. He's a good man." He turned his attention to Criston Massey. "We can give the Crowlander lords protection if they'll bend the knee. I'm guessing Aurane Waters will try and bully as many Crownlanders as he can into his forces. If we give him time, his army'll get too big. Bend the knee, my lord, and I will call my banners in support of you and the lords you represent." Davos felt a blush of pride as he saw Gendry draw himself up tall, like a proper king. Lord Massey, for his part, simply smiled as he bent the knee.

"Your Grace, I cannot deny - you remind me of Robert and Renly greatly. It is a wonder that any of us thought Cersei's bastards could have been his - Baratheon blood is strong. I pledge my house to Gendry of the House Baratheon, and to his heirs, from this day until our last day. I pledge myself to the Young Stag."

The stormlords and Gendry's council beat their fists on the wooden table laid out in front of them, with rumbles of "the Young Stag!" carrying through their tent. Gendry gave a ghost of a smile and nodded his acceptance.

* * *

"Bloody hells, Davos, I feel like a mummer acting a part every time I hold court. It's been more than a year and it doesn't get easier," grumbled Gendry, after all the lords had been dismissed to call their forces into marching order. Davos had advised him to march as soon as possible before Aurane Waters could besiege and force the allegiance of Crownlander lords. 

"For what it's worth, Your Grace, you have talent at mummery. Mayhaps if you had not been made a king, you could have had a long and successful career in a mummer's troupe in Essos."

Gendry rolled his eyes but failed to suppress a smirk. "I'll keep it in mind if I'm ever deposed, Davos."

"Forgive me, Your-"

Gendry waved him off. "Davos, you know when it's just us, you can call me Gendry."

Davos paused. "Gendry. You never told me about sending a gift to Jon."

Gendry's smirk widened. "I spent an entire moon forging the damn thing in Storm's End, so I'm surprised you never noticed."

"Most kings with a surfeit of time sneak off to brothels and father broods of bastards, but I've served as hand to two kings, one too honorable for that, and the other too disinterested in women-"

Gendry winced. "I'm not... not interested in women, Davos."

"Yes, you are disinterested in women, plural, because there's only one woman you'll have. You have it bad, son, and I'm sorry the one you have it bad for is halfway across the world right now," Davos said knowingly. Gendry glared at him, but he didn't shy at the young king's angry stare. "A marriage alliance would go a long way to securing your rule, and you have options. You could marry one of your bannermen's daughters, and strengthen your base at home. The Hightowers and the Redwynes both sent offers and proposals for an alliance."

Gendry shook his head. "And what, any one of those women would look over the fact that I'm just a bastard from Flea Bottom - no, Davos, don't start," he said, waving away the older man's impending objection. "You know it's true. There are only a handful of people who didn't treat me like a bastard - that old Hand, Lord Arryn, Lord Stark, you, Jon Snow, and Arya. That's bloody about it. The only reason these lords tolerate me is that they can't deny I look like my father and uncles."

"That may have gotten you in the door, son," Davos agreed. "But it didn't keep you there. You've been a good king so far, not to toot my own horn as Hand." Gendry smirked at that. "That's all your character and ability. Now, this gift?"

Gendry suddenly became very interested in the wood grain on the table. "Ah... you recall the tales of the Trident, right?"

"Your father defeated Rhaegar Targaryen in battle. Smashed his breastplate in with a hammer and let him drown on his own blood and the water of the river," Davos said. 

"Yeah, well, I thought my family owed Jon's a suit of armor to make up for that." Gendry continued picking at the wood grain, but Davos found himself smiling. Perhaps this was how Jon Arryn had felt with Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon as his wards - only, Davos would never trade either of his kings for Lord Stark or King Robert. "Jon fights light, so it's not full plate, but I was proud of it when it was done. I sent it North with Connington's boy a moon ago. If he does the job well, there's a legitimization in it for him. I think Connington would rather Griffin's Roost go to Ronald Storm than to Lord Raymund. You know, they say there are towns beyond the wall now - not just some huts, but actual towns. They've got a port up in Hardhome."

"Aye, I've spoken to some sailors. Jon's been busy," Davos said with a chuckle. "This boy, Connington's natural son - is that all you sent him to do? Deliver a suit of armor?"

Gendry shrugged. "I need news of the war up north. A war between Sansa and Jon, Davos, can you believe it?"

"I can't say that I do, to be honest," Davos said. "But Jon was often frustrated by his sister during his reign. They have... a different way of looking at things, I suppose."

"That's one way of saying it," Gendry said with a snort. "Also, I wanted to find out if... if she'd returned."

"My advice, son... if she hasn't, do yourself a favor and go meet someone else. Respond to one of the offers. Aye, there are no Arya Starks in the world, but they used to say there were no Lyanna Starks, either. Your father once loved a she-wolf and kingdoms burned for it." Davos ignored the glare he received from Gendry and bowed, taking his leave.

* * *

The short walls of Rosby were ablaze, but the large wheat fields all around the castle, and the outlying villages were only mildly molested. Davos's guess had been right.

Aurane Waters had a navy and an army, but no land with which to support them, no local base of operations, and no supply lines of which to speak. Rosby and Stokeworth were the biggest producers of food for King's Landing back in the day; they were natural and logical targets.

Two armies stood out across a large, muddied field. A small creek ran between them, but it was overflowing, bulging with rainwater that had poured non-stop for the last three days. The great rain had made the march up the road from the Blackwater Rush to Rosby a nightmare. They arrived muddied, tired, and irritable, but they arrived. Now, they stared across the field and creek at each other. 

Gendry and his banners were mounted atop a large hill, surveying the scene. The wheat fields surrounding the creek had become muddy hellscapes, as the waterlogged land was slick and wet. It was evident to everyone present that any advance across the fields and the creek would be slow, miserable, and suicidal. If there were archers in number among Aurane Waters' forces, they would slaughter the Stormlander forces in their slowed advance, picking them apart as they attempted to trample through the mud.

Gendry's forces numbered eighteen thousand now - fifteen were gathered on short notice from the Stormlands, and three thousand were supplied by the southern houses of the Crownlands. Their sigils fluttered in the breeze, though the day remained grey and overcast. Still, the rain had thankfully stopped. It was not evident to Davos how many men Aurane Waters truly had across the creek, but the armies seemed numerically matched. The problem was, that Aurane Waters had no incentive to leave his siege camp around Rosby's walls. He had food supplies readily available. He would not starve - neither would the Stormlords, but Aurane could force a surrender and march north, adding to his numbers as he went along.

In the evening, as the armies continued to standoff on opposite sides of the creek, Gendry called his lords to a meeting. He had suggested a plan in whispers to Davos, and Davos could only smile at the brilliance and audacity of it. He hoped that the other Stormlords agreed.

"My lords," Gendry said, speaking to a room full of grumbles and mutters. "My lords!"

The assembled banners quietened, turning their attention to their king. "My lords, we have a bloody problem." Gendry pointed at the creek on the makeshift map the Maester had drawn up for him, based on the scouting reports from the foraging parties that had been sent in every direction earlier in the day. "Rain's given Aurane Waters good ground. We can't attack cross the flooded creek and fields without mucking through the mud. They'll kill us as we attempt a crossing."

"I concur with His Grace," muttered Selwyn of Tarth. "The horse will have a hard time getting through the water-logged fields, not to mention the bloody unmounted men at arms."

"Bollocks," grumbled Ronnet Connington. "They have no horse to speak of. A charge will break them. They're just sellswords and Essosi. They'll break at the first sight of Westerosi steel." This was met with loud voices of assent from some of the younger lords. Davos suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Connington was brave, but lacking in sense.

"Turns out I agree with Lord Connington, but not in the way he expects," said Gendry, with a sly smile. His finger traced the creek on the map, caressing its curves. "The foragers said there's a crossing three miles down the creek, this way, and one more another mile down. It's less flooded and there's plenty of room for our horse to make it across the path. The sellswords either don't know about it, or they're not watching it."

"But Your Grace, there's a clear line of sight from their camp to ours. They have some woodland on their side, but we're out in plain sight like a gaggle of painted whores," said Lord Swann. "Any attempt to cross will be visible. They'll see our horse leave and track them along the creek to the crossing."

"If we cross during the day, my lord," interrupted Davos. "His Grace is suggesting something else entirely."

"Look, they'll see any movements we make during the day," Gendry said. "But we don't have to move only during the day. This is my plan. We split the army into two. Lord Tarth will maintain command here, and keep one thousand horse and nine thousand infantry on this side. I want you to light campfires all along the camp as if our whole army is remaining here in position on the hill," he said. "Make Aurane think we're staying put. Lord Tarth, you'll command the left, Lord Arstan Selmy will have the middle, and Lord Swann, you'll have the right. But here," he said, tapping at the crossing, "I'll take three thousand horse and five thousand foot across the crossing in the night. We'll use the woodland on their right as cover, and we'll attack just before dawn. In the meantime, I want the main force to fake crossings throughout the night - keep the sellswords awake and on their toes. Work in shifts, make sure the men get their sleep before the battle. An hour before dawn, wake everyone, and when I lead the attack on their flank, cross and engage their main force. We'll roll them up like this from the front and the woodland."

"Mad," said Connington with a grin. "His Grace is mad but brilliant." Rumbles of curious and pleasantly surprised assent echoed through the tent.

"What inspired this particular stratagem, Your Grace?" queried Lord Massey.

Gendry was quiet for a moment. "Have you ever been to Flea Bottom, my lords?" A few muttered their assent, and there was some light-hearted ribbing of Lord Wylde, who was known to frequent Flea Bottom taverns and whorehouses in his time in the capital. "There was a scam the urchin boys used to run on highborn who wandered into that part of King's Landing. Two boys would beg and pester the merchant or lord, trailing him, slowing him, keeping his attention on them, while another would sneak around the alley and pick the man's pockets from behind. Just when the man would think he had gotten rid of the boys, he'd touch his purse only to find it gone."

"Tactics learned from Flea Bottom urchins," laughed Casper Wylde, the Lord of Rain House. "You know, Your Grace, I think I once fell victim to this very strategy once-"

"More than once, Casper, given how often you frequented that part of the capital," said Lord Swann with a snicker, earning laughs and japes from the lords. To his credit, Davos thought, Wylde took it in stride and with a large smile. Out of the Stormlords, he liked the few who had their feet planted in the ground without their heads in the clouds. Wylde was a rake, but good-natured and clever. 

"You mentioned our advantage on horse, Ronnet. You, the Lord Hand, Lords Fell, Estermont, Caron, and Penrose are crossing with me. Lord Massey and Lord Ralph Buckler, you'll lead the vanguard under the Lord Hand. Lords Errol and Wylde will have the skirmishers on the left and right flank of the main force." Gendry said. "My lords, gather your men. After midnight, we make our crossing."

* * *

Aurane Waters, it seemed, was not a complete buffoon. His men, too, hand found the first crossing, and they had posted scouts to watch it. Some of the Stormlords had looked exasperated to find their ruse discovered. Davos chalked it up to decisive thinking on Gendry's part that he ordered the crossing to be made anyway, but only by the infantry, under the command of Lords Penrose and Estermont. He sent most of the cavalry to the crossing another mile further down.

Davos was struck by a sudden idea, one he communicated quickly to Gendry. "Your Grace, if the sellswords retreat, they'll bring word of the crossing to their main force. The surprise will be given away."

"What if you command the main attack to begin now?" suggested old Damon Penrose. "The center of the enemy will be engaged earlier, but we'll maintain the element of surprise. There'll be too much chaos for them to pivot and meet us."

"Lord Penrose speaks true, Your Grace." In fact, Davos had thought similarly. They would lose many men, and they would have to rush back along the creek to make it to the battle in time, but short of calling off the attack, it was the only thing left to do. Again, Gendry pleasantly surprised Davos by acting quickly.

"Fine. Lord Connington - send your quickest man to Lord Tarth," Gendry barked in command. "Tell him to attack immediately, and that I'll be there soon."

Penrose was right, in the end - the cavalry made their crossing a mile south and broke the flank of the guarding sellswords in half an hour. Some of the sellswords guarding the ford managed to flee on horse, but it was still a full half-hour after Gendry had sent a rider to Lord Tarth. Decisive action likely kept their surprise intact - the attack would be well underway by the time the sellswords managed to bring word of the flanking attack on their camp. 

It took a little less than an hour for them to arrive at the woodland by the flank of Aurane Waters' forces, but the sound of steel meeting steel and the screaming of men was audible long before they did. Davos ordered the forces into formation, the way Gendry had drawn up the attack - advancing in oblique, with light cavalry in advance at their left, followed by heavy cavalry, and then infantry. The attack was to be like a door on a hinge, rolling upon the enemy from behind and sweeping them down away from Rosby Castle and into the creek and the waiting lines of the Stormlander forces.

There was no speech, no lofty words. Gendry wasn't for it - he barked commands to his lords, putting Connington and Caron in charge of the light and heavy cavalry. Gendry himself would lead the infantry. He dismounted and stood tall in his gleaming plate, with a black and yellow surcoat emblazoned with the stag of his house. His helm was a stag helm, with short but proud antlers, and But Gendry was no mute. Davos watched with pride as he spoke with the common soldiers, giving them words of encouragement, making bawdy jokes. He had somehow inherited all the good of Robert - his gregariousness and personability - while inheriting none to little of the bad. 

They charged when dawn broke, and Penrose's suggestion worked wonders. The sellswords had not managed to warn their main force, which was still engaged with the main stormlander force. The attack was progressing poorly, however. Davos could see that the stormlanders had barely managed to cross the swollen creek, and the battle was fierce on the other side. Most of Aurane's forces had pressed up against the creek, and only a token guard was left at the camp and the battlements of Rosby castle.

With cries of "Ours is the Fury!", the Storm Lords burst forth from the forest, and crashed like the sea into the flank of Aurane Waters' army. Like butter against a hot knife, the sellswords gave way, as the infantry pushed them aside, and the cavalry pushed them into the creek. Like a hammer, Gendry had struck the sellsword army against an anvil.

In the few waking moments of clarity in the rush of battle, Davos caught sight of Gendry and Aurane Waters finding each other in the battle, in the shin-deep waters of the muddy wheat fields. He was not close enough to hear the words, if any, that were spoken between the two, but as he watched, Davos realized he was witnessing something that had happened already in history - a young stag lord, fighting against a Valyrian, in the mud and water of a river. Was it like this when Rhaegar and Robert faced off against each other at the Trident? Had they looked like this - a silver-haired man in dark steel with an aquamarine surcoat, wielding a cutlass and buckler, against the stag-helmed terror armed with a hammer?

The spirit of Rhaegar Targaryen did not achieve any vengeance that day. As dawn broke, and Gendry and Aurane fought their duel, history repeated itself once more as hammer met sword, as the two fought in the mud in the chaos of the fighting. Gendry's personal guard tussled with Aurane's own men, but Gendry barked at them to leave the pirate lord to him. Gendry was not a fighter of finesse. He didn't have the grace or cleverness of Jon Snow, the trained practicality of Stannis. He was his father's son on the battlefield, roaring as he swung his hammer tirelessly over and over, until one blow finally found its way home, crushing Aurane Waters' breastplate, ribs, and lungs. Whatever choked cry the pirate lord might have made was never heard by Davos, and never would be. As the man fell into the water, Gendry swung his hammer once more, crushing Aurane Waters' face under the mud of Rosby creek.

The sellsword army melted like ice in the summer when word of Aurane Waters' death spread. Some got away, but the cavalry chased most of them down, reaping them like chaff in the fields. Victorious, triumphant cries and cheers rent the air, as the Stormlanders celebrated their great victory and the second coming of Robert Baratheon himself.

Even Davos joined in, raising his bloodied sword as he took up the cry of his army.

The Young Stag, they called their Storm King.

* * *

In the aftermath, their losses were not as great as they could have been. The Stormlanders lost eleven hundred men of their eighteen thousand. But only Lord Arstan Selmy had taken a grazing blow from a spear, and Lord Massey had his cheek grazed by a crossbow bolt - none of the lords had died, or had even been seriously wounded. The sellsword army was almost entirely eradicated.

At Davos' suggestion, Gendry spared the few lords that Aurane had pressed into his service. Whether they had truly resisted at their small castles and manors, or whether they had willingly joined with the pirate, would be impossible to tell - they would have to trust for now, and determine the extent of their loyalty later. With this victory, Gendry had secured the fealty of every house south of the Blackwater Rush, and some to the north, as well. The Stormlands now extended to Rosby - which, incidentally, was now held by nobody. House Rosby was gone.

They feasted after. Rosby had been well stocked with provisions and had not been sieged for long. Wine and ale flowed freely, as did song and cheer. The son of Robert Baratheon, however, did not take after his father in all respects. King Robert would have been long drunk and his face and beard buried in the bosom of a tavern wench by now, but King Gendry only sipped carefully at his wine, observing the festivities. 

"You may be Robert's son," Davos said, leaning over to his liege, "but you have much more of Renly's grace and Stannis' temperance in you. I think the lords appreciate that, but try not to look too sullen."

Gendry grimaced. "We won a victory here, Davos, but it worries me."

"Worries you how?"

Gendry shrugged, taking another sip of his ale. "I don't want these lords to get drunk on one win and think I can conquer the entire continent. What if they want me to be King - not just Storm King, but of all of them? I don't want that. I never have. I'm fine with my family name and my castle and my Stormlands. It's more than a bastard like me ever deserved or wanted."

Davos sipped his ale and took a bite of the roast mutton. "Fear not, Your Grace. I think the Stormlands have been at war too long. I don't think anyone but a few of the belligerent ones will want more war."

Gendry nodded. "I hope so. You have a title, Davos, and a knighthood, given to you by my uncle, but you don't have a true castle. Rosby is yours. I'll draw up the proclamation and make it official tomorrow."

Davos froze as he was lifting his cup to his lips. "Your Grace, I-"

"Don't give me horseshit about not deserving or wanting it, Davos. You'll barely be there, anyway. Your lady wife and your son can rule the castle for you. I still need you at Storm's End. They'll have a home, and Devan will have a keep he deserves. You can give your small lands in Cape Wrath to Stannis and Steffon. I need someone I can trust in the Crownlands."

Davos smiled weakly. "All I was going to say was that you don't need to draw up the proclamation yourself."

"Don't jest. I can read and write now, but I still need the bloody practice," snorted Gendry. "My penmanship could use the work. There's one more thing, Davos."

"What is it?"

Gendry sighed. "I'm ready to consider marriage. I don't enjoy all this, fighting, killing. I'd rather rule in peace. Give me more days in my smithy," he said with a lopsided grin. "A marriage with the right house would make us stronger. We could prevent war with it." 

Daven, his son, approached the table then. Davos beamed at him with pride. He had acquitted himself well in battle as the King's squire and surely would earn his knighthood soon, but the boy wore a wary expression on his face as he approached the king. 

"Your Grace... a raven for you," he said. "The letter has an unmarked seal on it."

Gendry gave Davos a sideways look. "A raven from Jon, perhaps?" he said. Davos simply shrugged, as Gendry took it out of Daven's hand, broke the seal, and began to read the letter. Davos watched the blood drain from the King's face.

"Your Grace, what is it?" he said.

Gendry did not respond. Davos peered at the letter - it was not long, and Gendry was no longer struggling with reading to where it would have taken him longer than usual. Whatever the contents of the letter were, they had driven the King into silence.

"She's back, Davos," Gendry croaked. "She's... she's back."

"Who, Your Grace?" Davos asked, but he already knew.

"Arya. She's back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this battle was the Battle of the Hydaspes, Alexander's last great victory.


	17. Unbowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne plots a coup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to make you wait for Jon vs. Sansa, but we have some more time to spend in the South :) Hope this chapter turned out well.

**Arianne - I**  
  


If it had ever been done before in Dornish history, Arianne didn't want to hear about it. What fault of hers was it that Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes nearly led Dorne into ruin?  
  
She smoothed the front of her dress, adjusting the straps so that she was only covered to the bare minimum of decency - Andal decency, anyway, not that it ever mattered to the Rhoynar. Dorne was a hot place - if one desired to bury themselves under fur, they could move to White Harbor or the Wall, as far as she was concerned. Her eyes flitted from chair to chair, observing the occupants that sat on the finely carved table. A bowl made of yew sat in the middle, holding fresh oranges.

It was Prince Manfrey who reached over and plucked the first orange, followed by Edric Dayne. But where Edric's touch was deft and pleasant, Manfrey was a slob, tearing into the orange without a care for the splatter. Arianne watched him with distaste.

 _What is to be of Dorne, if lords like Manfrey are left to rule?_ she thought.

She had given a lot of thought about what was to be of Dorne, lately. And none of those thoughts included both Manfrey on the throne, and a glorious future. No, she had her people and her country to think of. It was her birthright, yes, and that would have been enough for her to reach out and grasp it anyway. But this was a more patriotic doing. Manfrey was not the leader Dorne required.

Naturally, she was.

She didn't have much time to set her plans in motion; the ships carrying the agents of the Fiery Hand arrived two nights ago in Planky Town and in the Shadow City of Sunspear today. She had passed a message along to Kinvara that she would meet her after the Council meeting.

It was only to keep an eye on her that Manfrey had her on the council, anyway, as Mistress of Coin. The other members were there for different reasons. Master of War, Ned Dayne had gone to war a boy and come back a man, his service under Lord Beric Dondarrion having changed him. His boyish features had morphed and changed - his face, though still pretty, was scarred on the chin, the cheek, above the eyes, including one scar that bisected his pale blond left eyebrow and drew even more attention to those near-purple Dayne eyes of his. Yet no matter how strikingly handsome he was, he was still young and inexperienced - not who Arianne would have chosen, even if Allyria would have leaned on her for it. Soldiers were different from tacticians. Warriors and generals were not the same thing.  
  
There was Maester Caleotte, a short, bald, and fat man. Arianne disliked him greatly - not the least because he bore a slight resemblance to Varys the Spider, and had a cunning side as well. Caleotte would oppose her plans if he got wind of them. By far, he was the most dangerous, moreso even than the Master of Whispers.

She missed some of the familiar faces of the court. She missed Areo, even with his stubborn and blind loyalty to her father. Areo may have opposed her plans while Father was alive, but he would have supported her now, against Manfrey of all people. But Manfrey, boor that he was, was not completely stupid. He had managed to scatter most of her court support throughout Dorne. Daemon Sand had been sent back to manage Godsgrace while Lord Allyrion had been called to the capital to serve as Master of Whispers. Gerold Dayne was no longer in favor in court.

"So, what news of the Storm King, Lord Allyrion?" Manfrey said, his mouth full of orange, juice dribbling down his chin. Arianne hid her distaste.

Lord Ryon cleared his throat, taking a sip of the unsweetened lemonwater that he - like Gerold Dayne - preferred. "Our eyes and ears report that the Baratheon boy defeated Aurane Waters at Rosby, my Prince. The armies were evenly matched, I was told, but he managed to win with his army largely unscathed. The Stormlands now claim everything from the Marches to the Blackwater Rush. They maintain nominal control of the ruins of King's Landing."

"So does Gendry Baratheon plan on pressing a claim to the Iron Throne?" Edric spoke up. Arianne eyed him quizzically. Hadn't she heard that Gendry had been with the Brotherhood Without Banners for a while? Had Edric known him? 

"There is no Iron Throne," scoffed Lord Franklyn Fowler. "And the Baratheon boy is still a legitimized bastard. He might be accepted here in Dorne, but the other kingdoms of Westeros are not likely to look upon him kindly." The Master of Laws was a dependable man, an old warrior and capable. After the regime change, Arianne thought she might keep him on, although he had an antiquated mind. The Fowlers were Wardens of Prince's Pass and were among the most powerful bannermen in Dorne. 

"Orys Baratheon was a bastard, too, my lords," said Maester Caleotte softly. The Maester did not often speak, but when matters of history, medicine, or agriculture were brought up, his opinion was consulted. And Arianne admitted that Caleotte had a point. As of late, several people had gone on to prove that bastardy was not the impediment in the other kingdoms that it had once been, though it was not quite in line with Dorne.

"The Maester is right," Arianne said. "For the sake of Dorne, we must assume that Gendry Baratheon is planning on advancing a claim."

"Gendry's not that ambitious," Edric said, half to himself. Every head in the room swiveled to look at him - some in confusion, others with curiosity. Arianne was among the latter.

"And how, pray tell, do you know this, Master of War?" said Manfrey.

"I knew him, during the war," Edric said with a shrug, pinning a stray blonde lock behind his ear. "The stormlords might want to seat Robert's son in King's Landing, but Gendry won't want it himself. I don't think we have much to be concerned about on that front, at least as of yet. In the event that I've miscalculated, as you all know, we were least affected in the tumult of the last few years. Our only losses came at sea, and through the intrigue that robbed us of Princes Doran and Oberyn. Dorne has more strength than all the other kingdoms right now, with around 40,000 spears and another 10,000 horse we could raise. If there is an invasion, we would crush them."

"And what if we were to fight outside our borders?" Arianne purred.

All heads turned to her. "Surely, Princess, you don't mean to imply that Dorne would launch offensive wars?" said Manfrey, silkily. "Why ever would we leave the borders of our principality?"

"I'm merely suggesting that a campaign to defend Dorne may find itself blazing trails outside of Dorne, my Prince," she parried. "I am not a warrior, of course, so perhaps we should defer to the veterans in the room. Lords Fowler, Dayne - what do you suggest?"

"My house has held Prince's Pass since time immemorial," Fowler rumbled. Arianne gave him a small appreciative smile; everyone in the room save Ned Dayne, Manfrey, and the maester seemed to not pick up on Arianne's hidden suggestion that Manfrey was not a warrior or a veteran, by redirecting the question to others. She had played this game of barbs for as long as she could, ever since Manfrey was acclaimed Prince after the death of Ellaria and the elder Sand Snakes. It was the only visible rebellion she allowed herself, but now she couldn't help but lay it on one more time. Before the true rebellion took place.

"I would not desire to range far afield from Dorne with our armies," Edric said, giving her a wary look. "Our phalanxes and skirmisher cavalry fight well in the desert mountains of home. They will not necessarily fare well in unfamiliar territory. Not to mention that Gendry Baratheon is unmarried."

"And Gendry Baratheon will likely remain unmarried," Arianne stated flatly.

"Princess, Paxter Redwyne still has a daughter. Perhaps Lord Allyrion can confirm, but I would bet that old Redwyne has sent an offer of betrothal to Gendry. It's only a matter of-"

"When I was in King's Landing the last year for the Great Council, I saw Gendry Baratheon have eyes only for Princess Arya Stark of the North. I had some of my friends look into the matter-" she stared pointedly at Lord Allyrion, as if to let him know that she, too, had eyes and ears in high places - "and I learned that he was quite besotted with her. Nothing so foolish as a man in love so much so that he's blinded to other women," she said with a gentle laugh. "Quite the opposite of his father, I suppose."

"Not really," said Edric, voice soft. "Didn't King Robert once love a Northern lady once, too? As I recall, it ended with Rhaegar's chest caved in on some muddy fork of the Trident, with Princess Elia and her children lost to us, and with the kingdoms ablaze. All for a crown of winter roses."

The room grew deathly quiet, but Arianne wanted to laugh. _If only they knew. Pity about Aunt Elia, of course, but they're not privy to what I know._

Allyrion broke the silence by clearing his throat. "I suppose that leads into the other thing I wished to apprise the small council of. It would seem that the North is engulfed in civil war."

There was a sudden outburst in the room. Even Arianne found herself caught by surprise. For the North to be at odds with itself was rare. Yes, the Boltons had nearly managed to topple House Stark, but that was only with the Lannister-Tyrell alliance nearing a complete victory in the war. When the Lannisters' fortunes were reversed, the North righted course. They were an obstinate and mulish lot.

"What do you mean by this?" questioned Manfrey sharply. "The North, at war with itself?"

"It would, ahem, appear that some of the Northern lords believe that Sansa Stark has allied with the Ironborn. I've heard of an incident far to the north, in Bear Island. Quite a few of their bannermen, notably the Manderlys, have joined cause with the so-called Aemon Targaryen-"

"Not so called," said Edric. "I've seen him, though I don't think he's ever seen me or been introduced. I was there with the Brotherhood. I did not fight at Winterfell, but I did evacuate the Northern smallfolk to White Harbor during their war with the Dead. If you saw him ride that dragon, you would know. I look more Valyrian than him, but Rhaegal would have burned me alive if I dared inch near."

Manfrey waved it off. "Details. What is the status of that war?"

_It's not 'details,' you fool. The fate of everything hinges on Aemon Targaryen. Sansa Stark will defeat him and the threat he poses will come to naught._

She ignored the nagging voice in the back of her head that questioned what would happen if the Northern Dragon managed to defeat his cousin.

"It would seem that Lord Tully..."

* * *

Sneaking out of the palace had become easy for her. Never mind that Sunspear was stocked with secret passageways in and out - many were watched. But Arianne knew which ones weren't, and she had picked two of them - one on the northwestern side of the castle, leading into the markets, the other simply west, heading to the port. Her luck won out without even trying the western entrance - the northwestern one was entirely unguarded and unwatched. She drew her cloak about her, peering furtively as she made her way through the streets of the Shadow City. The city came alive at night, but here, she was dressed like a commoner, her hair down, without any braids, jewels, or ties, and with no finery or regal clothing - something a washerwoman or a scullery maid would wear, instead.

It did not take her long to find the agreed-upon tavern. It was empty - the barkeep was missing, and there were signs of a small scuffle on the ground floor. Arianne picked her way around fallen chairs and some broken glass, heading up the stairs to where she heard some creaking of wood.

They were there, assembled, muttering to each other on the second den on the second floor. The barkeep was tied and muffled, propped against the far wall, with his head lolled. He did not seem to be dead - or at least, Arianne thought so. All the armed men turned toward her, some brandishing swords, other whispering foul words in languages she could not quite understand. They were an eclectic bunch - only a handful of Westerosi, most of whom were Dornish, but many of the races of Essos were represented, including some that Arianne did not recognize.

The woman who stepped between them must have been Kinvara. She raised a hand towards the agents, who seemed to calm at her command before she turned her attention on Arianne. The woman was dark of hair, with blue-grey eyes, dressed in a red gown cut low. She had a noticeable hexagonal pendant around her neck, with a gleaming ruby affixed to the middle.

"Good evening, Princess Arianne," she said. Her voice was soft and honeyed, with a rich accent. "I am Kinvara, sent to you by the will of the Lord and his chosen."

Immediate dislike filled Arianne's mind. She was not a zealot, nor was she intrigued by one, but the Lord of Light was a means to an end. Surely, she could humor them that long.

"Well met, Lady Kinvara," Arianne said. "These are poor accommodations, unworthy of a visitor to Dorne. Let us do our business in the palace, and then I might host you fittingly."

Kinvara inclined her head. "To forsake luxury for the will of the Lord is nothing to me, nor to our agents, Princess. Nor must you go to lengths for us - I can tell you are not among those for whom zeal or belief is particularly important." Kinvara flashed a small knowing smile at her. "But we do have a guest with us, and I am certain that he would appreciate Sunspear." Kinvara stepped aside as one of the agents stepped forth, lowering the hood he wore. Arianne gasped when she saw him. Unlike the rest of his compatriots, he was neither Essosi nor Westerosi. He was tall, handsome - beautiful, even - with eyes so deeply blue that they were unmistakeably purple. Without the hood, his hair was revealed as silver, almost platinum, that was short, on the sides, and slightly longer on top. His jaw was strong and he had an aquiline nose, with a steely gaze - the gaze of a king.

She had expected agents of the Fiery Hand and several Red Priests. And there were, certainly, but this was entirely unexpected.

"Hello, dear cousin," he said, flashing a charming smile at her. "You can't imagine how wonderful it is to finally meet you."

Suddenly Arianne felt incredibly exposed, and she instantly regretted not having her finery on. She supposed it would have to do for now that Aegon Targaryen was meeting her dressed as a maid or serving-woman, but she intended to rectify that upon her return to the palace.

She curtseyed deeply, more out of habit than anything else - her mind was still in partial shock, and her tendencies and training took over in the absence of directed action - but Aegon stopped her, closing the distance between them and embracing her.

"I'll not have my kin scrape and bow to me now." He let her go but kept her arms on her shoulders as he distanced himself just a smidge, taking in her features. "This would be particularly embarrassing if you aren't Arianne, but you must be. You look so much like her."

_Her. Rhaenys, he must mean._

She fought a small war to keep the surprised stutter out of her voice, but it was a war she won. "Cousin, you- I wasn't expecting you here. I'm overjoyed to finally meet you. Is she here? Rhae?"

Aegon's bright smile turned into a darkened scowl so quickly that she was caught by surprise, and his grip tightened subtly on her shoulders. "We have much to speak of, but later. I promise to answer all your questions. If all goes well, I suspect you and I will be up til morn getting acquainted."

 _Wouldn't I like that?_ she thought, even though there was no hint of salaciousness in his voice.

* * *

She led Aegon and the agents of the Fiery Hand through the streets, sneaking from corner to corner, shadow to shadow, to the port. Again, fortune was on their side; the port contained cisterns that had old entrances to the palace. The entrance she had taken out was too small for a party of conspirators, and they would be conspicuous there. But the port's cisterns were large, and they had wide hallways underground that led into the palace.

It was waterlogged, dirty, and messy, but Arianne paid it no mind. Her eyes were affixed to Aegon. It was incredible that he had come from Essos, but so many questions filled her mind. The information provided by the Red Priests was minimal, and she understood why - there was a need for secrecy, and hinting at the existence of Aegon or the resurrection of Daenerys could be incredibly dangerous if the wrong people were to find out. 

_If things were proceeding according to plan, Aegon would not need to be here. Something has gone wrong._

She put the thought aside, leading her co-conspirators up the cistern. The walls were dank and filthy, but there were dry paths through the underway that led up into the servants quarters of the palace. They found almost no one - the few palace servants that were still around were quickly silenced. In the palace itself, the conspirators moved from room to room, avoiding the guard quarters. They did not spare the guards the way they spared the palace servants. In Arianne's mind, they were all loyal to Manfrey. Those that were loyal to her knew where to be and where not to be tonight.

In the end, when they overcame the guards outside Manfrey's bedroom, Arianne did not go inside to see the end of the man who had stolen her throne. As much as it would have pleased her, she did not intend to open herself up to accusations of kinslaying. As she heard yelling, screaming, and death rattles inside, it was Aegon who touched her arm gently. She leaned into the touch, giving him a smile she hoped appeared grateful.

"I don't know Lord Manfrey, and I don't know how you feel about him, but he was kin. Are you all right, cousin?" Aegon asked.

She placed a hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He didn't move or flinch at the gesture, and she felt a little emboldened thrill. "I am. He usurped my birthright, Aegon. I think you can imagine."

"I can indeed." Aegon glanced around furtively. "I don't want to reveal my identity just yet. The timing is delicate. Point me to your quarters, Arianne. I'll await you there. When you've secured the palace, we can speak in private." Arianne gave him a nod, and with a kiss to her hand, Aegon took his leave, flanked by two burly warriors of the Fiery Hand.

She had Maester Caleotte brought to her, ordering him to convene an emergency meeting of the small council. Caleotte told her that Edric Dayne had fled the palace during the coup. Her loyalists had done their work while she fetched the Fiery Hand, imprisoning Lord Ryon. Lord Fowler, she had left alone - she needed the support of the nobles. Allyrion was replaceable - she could always legitimize Daemon - but the Fowlers could be invaluable allies.

When they were brought to her, she sat in the seat reserved for the Prince of Dorne. Fowler did not comment, though he watched her like a hawk. Lord Ryon ranted and raved. She let him.

"Are you quite done, my lord?" she asked, when he took a moment to breathe before continuing his tirade. "You are lucky that you haven't been imprisoned for treason. Bend the knee, and I will allow you to retire in honor to Godsgrace in exchange for one of your sons as a ward, Lord Ryon. It is a better offer than you will ever receive."

"You'll never hold the throne. Dorne has had enough of the scheming women of the Martell family," he hissed.

"Dorne exists only because of the scheming of the women of the Martells, my lord. For your sake, I shall pretend I did not hear that, but if I hear one more thing from you, I will have your head and I will legitimize Daemon to your hall. Now, take your leave and retire to your quarters, or I promise to send your skull back to your lady mother," she said.

Allyrion hemmed and hawed and ranted and raved, but left all the same, flanked by her guards. She let him have his words - it would salve his pride in the coming days. She would approach Lady Delonne and offer Daemon a position to smooth things over, perhaps hold one of Ryon's trueborn sons as a ward, in exchange for Ryon himself. She turned her attention to Lord Fowler.

"I pray I will not have to resort to such behavior with you, my lord," she said pointedly. Old Fowler simply gave her a small smile.

"No, my Princess. Dorne is yours. It was rightfully yours. House Fowler is at the service of House Martell, as always."

"Good. You shall remain on the council, but as my Master of War. It would seem that Lord Dayne has turned traitor and fled," Arianne said. "I have more news to share with you, but at a later time. There are plans within plans, but they will require some time to ripen and mature to fruition. Can I trust in your loyalty and your discretion, my lord?"

Fowler bowed his head. "House Fowler is yours, Your Grace." Arianne nodded her dismissal graciously, and Fowler took it. She sighed as she eyed the parchment and quill laid on the table, but it could not wait. There were many friends she wanted to call to court. Many loyalists. 

* * *

It was still dark when she finally had full control over the palace. The great houses of Dorne had no love for Manfrey, and she knew she had the support of many of the great families. Once Fowler fell in line, they all would, though Allyrion would take some delicate handling and Dayne... well, Edric Dayne could not be trusted, but there were others. Gerold would make a fine lord of Starfall, even if he already held High Hermitage. And she could count on Allyria to smooth things over. 

She cast aside those thoughts of tomorrow for the moment of today. The agents of the Fiery Hand stood guard outside her room, no doubt watching over Aegon. She had servants brought to her quarters and a bath prepared, sinking into it. Aegon did not come until she was already naked and in the oiled and scented water, washing the grime of the day off herself. She chuckled when he averted his eyes to her.

"Come, cousin. Don't be frightened. We have much to discuss, and I don't think it can wait for me to take a bath," she said, giggling. "As it is, you can't see me under the water." That was only partially true. If he looked hard enough, he could see the curve of her bosom and her shapely thighs underneath.

Aegon looked at her quickly and looked away. "I'm just... not used to such liberties."

"Well, I can't imagine Rhaenys remembers enough of Dorne to do such things. But what about your wife, the Queen?" she probed. "Essos is a place of eclectic delights. Perhaps the Queen indulges."

Aegon laughed. "The Queen is... singleminded."

Arianne gave him an indulgent smile, splashing the water around her shoulders and neck. "To be honest, cousin, I'm rather surprised you're here. Unfortunately, my instincts tell me that the reason for that is nothing good."

"No, it isn't," Aegon confirmed, running his hands through his hair. "There's been... an unexpected sort of setback."

"Are there usually expected setbacks?" Arianne asked drily. If they were having trouble in Essos even with a fully grown dragon, they would fail here, certainly.

"No, last I heard, we had taken Qarth and our armies were marching back in towards Dragon's Bay to secure tribute and levies from Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai. It's... Rhaenys, actually."

"What's the matter?"

"Rhaenys has defected," Aegon said plainly, his eyes boring into hers now. "She took her dragon and the other, the white one. We lost her somewhere in Asshai. One of our scouts reported that she was last seen in Braavos in the company of a northern woman. By now she must be in Westeros." His words hit her like a pallet of mud-brick, toppling down on her like a poorly built house. 

"Describe her, this northern woman of yours," Arianne urged. 

Aegon shrugged, as if not understanding why it was important, but he told her anyway. "Short, robust of build, dark hair, grey eyes, a long face. She wore northern wools and furs. And she was armed, with a thin rapier and a knife.

The likeness sprang into her mind almost instantaneously. "My, Aegon, you managed to lose Rhaenys to Arya Stark, of all people. I would imagine that Rhaenys is in the North. Likely, she's gone beyond the Wall, to Jon Snow." Suddenly, things clicked into place. If Rhaenys had made it to Westeros, but news of Daenerys had not, it could only mean one thing - she had gone to Jon Snow, but in the midst of a war, they had not managed to get word out. 

She had never in her life wanted something good for someone else before. Namely, here, for Sansa Stark to crush her cousin. It would preserve the element of surprise for a while longer yet.

"Queen Daenerys will have to speed up her plans. No matter. And you say Rhaenys and the other dragon are lost to us?" she pressed.

"Yes, but I suspect it won't matter much. If they're growing at the same rate as Aerax - my dragon," he added. "Drogon is much larger than all three. It won't be another Dance. Cousin, I have to ask - are the rumors true? Jon Snow is a child of my father?"

"A trueborn one, it would seem. There was some evidence presented... but no matter. Jon Snow would rather live like a savage in the snow than come back south to King's Landing again. If and when you are ready to deal with him, you will go to him," Arianne said, flashing him a smile. "Now be a dear and turn around for me, will you, cousin? I should like to get out of the bath."

To her pleasure, Aegon blushed deeply and nodded, turning around. She continued to speak as she dried herself with a towel. The servants had laid out nightclothes and a robe for her, which she was grateful for after the roughspun clothes she had masqueraded in earlier. 

"So, how do you like your wife?" she asked, keeping her tone as casual as possible. I've never seen her, but I hear tell she's one of the most beautiful women in the world."

Aegon did not answer for a while, and she felt curious as to why he hesitated. When he finally spoke, his words were measured and calculated. "It is a good partnership."

"That hardly sounds like the enthusiasm of a man married to a legendary beauty," she jested lightheartedly, but Aegon's brow remained furrowed and serious. "I don't mean to poke fun, Aegon. Marriage can't be easy. It's why I haven't."

Aegon chuckled. "You hardly seem the type to run from a challenge, Arianne."

"I'm not." Her smile was broad when he saw her eyes fall to the neckline of her robe, right at the hint of cleavage she had very much consciously decided to display.. _Human after all, Aegon. Human after all_. "I've just been waiting for the right challenge to come along."


	18. A Knife in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya stabs people and makes a final plea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well, here we are. Part I of the Northern Civil War. We'll be exploring it through multiple POVs

**Arya - II**

  
"You promise to let me fly on Lyagar when he's big enough, right?" She felt like a child again, tugging at Jon's sleeve, hoping her older brother would share in the fun with her. It had been so long since she had done so, but if there was anyone who ever brought out the last vestiges of the little girl that had once been Arya Stark of Winterfell, it was Jon. 

Jon looked at her with an exasperated scowl that only deepened as she pleaded with big eyes, but she knew when he feigned annoyance and when he actually felt it. It was their game, their ritual.

"Bloody hells, Arya, he's the size of a dog. Yes, when he's big enough, _and_ if it's safe, I will take you on a ride," he muttered, shaking his head. His grip tightened around Longclaw as they stalked through the dark of the underbrush, moving their way down the small lake surrounding Queenscrown. They were on the other side of the lake from where Sansa's forces were.

It was an especially cool night, though still not as cold as it once used to get before the defeat of the White Walkers. The North would never stop being dreary and chilly, but it wasn't freezing. They kept warm as they pushed through, her and Jon and the two score Crannogmen scouts that followed behind them. Meera had almost come with them. She had insisted, begged, pled with Jon. Arya still remembered the look on Bran's face as she did. They had clearly argued about it, and Meera had won, though winning over her husband and winning over Jon were two entirely different fights. Eventually, it was Rhaenys who had taken Meera aside. She spoke some soft words to her, and Meera had stopped, much to their surprise.

"What was it that Rhae said to Meera that got her to shut up?" Arya said. "Not that I don't think she can fight, mind you, I heard stories from Bran, but she's pregnant."

"She told her that it was selfish to risk the future of House Stark on a mission that didn't need her. Aye, she's not big enough to where it would harm her, and I've seen Free Folk women do much and more when they're with child, but it was unnecessary. If we win this war, you or Bran would have Winterfell." Jon's breath turned into puffs of air as it left his mouth, dissipating into the night air as they continued to stalk. "And Bran's child would be the heir to Winterfell and Greywater Watch both."

"Well that's obvious," Arya snorted. "Still, why did-"

"She listen to Rhaenys but not to us?" Jon shrugged. "I don't know. Rhaenys has a way with words."

Arya had to admit that she was. She had gotten her to believe in her identity in Asshai with only minimal work. Granted, the dragons helped, and Moqorro, as mysterious as he was, seemed trustworthy, but even on their voyage back to Westeros, Rhaenys had astounded her with her ability to convince and persuade with just her words. It was almost like the webweavers she had known and hated in her past, the schemers and the frauds, like Petyr Baelish, except one didn't feel the need for a bath after they spoke to her. She was genuine in a way that many of the players of the Game were not. Her power was genuine, honest, and trustworthy.

"We never talked about it," Arya said, "but what do you plan to do with Sansa after? If we win, I suppose."

"I don't know," Jon said darkly. "I'm trying not to think about it."

"You could send her to the Wall," Arya joked weakly. They had crested the bottom edge of the lake, and they saw campfires and tents ahead of them. They had arrived at the rearguard of Sansa's army. The baggage train would be less than a league in the rear. It had been Arya's plan, consented to by Jon and his advisors, their makeshift small council - if they cut off Sansa's supplies, destroyed enough of them, they could force her to come to them or to retreat to Winterfell to resupply before engaging in another war. The second option was untenable. Sansa would lose the support of some of the Northern lords, the Riverlanders would grow discontent from the lack of supplies and from being so far from home, and whatever the Valemen who came under Harrold Hardyng felt was beyond them, but surely they too would be unwilling to face a prospect of a campaign far in the North with little to no supplies.

"She'd find a way to become Lady Commander and haunt me even then," Jon grunted. "Damn her ambitions, Arya, she should be helping us with the war to come. Why is it that I spend my whole life convincing idiots and fools to focus on the greater threat?"

"You're the Prince that was Promised," Arya teased. "You don't get to be a fancy object of prophecy for free, you know." Her voice became more serious, low. "How do you feel about it all? We never discussed it. Did you talk to Rhae?"

"We spoke about it briefly. I didn't offer details and she didn't ask - about Daenerys." They neared the first of the baggage train now, wagons lined along the Kingsroad. There was forest on all sides here, not particularly dense, but enough to hide their small party. The Crannogmen were good at that. Sometimes Arya didn't even realize they were still following behind, but they were. "What is there to talk about?"

"I don't know, how about the fact that she was once dead, came back to life, and now wants to kill our whole family?" Arya suggested. "Forgive me, but it seems like an important point."

"Aye, but there's nothing to talk about," Jon shot back roughly. "It is what it is. We have to rally and face her."

 _It is what it is?_ Arya grumbled to herself. _Seven hells, Jon, it's not a bloody inconvenience, it's our doom come for us._

Whatever steps Jon had taken to deal with the guilt of his past, clearly it had not been enough. It was hard for her to blame him. She would have stabbed Daenerys in the heart without a second thought, right in the heart, and elsewhere for good measure and insurance, but Jon was in a unique position. He was still Stark, yes, and still her brother, but she could no longer hide from the fact that he had another family, another name, and another sister - one that had turned out to be good, one that even she liked. It was the presence of Rhaenys that forced her to come to terms with how Jon must have struggled with his own identity, and it put his actions in the waning days of Daenerys' war in context.

Jon and Rhaenys seemed to get along, but there was something between them, a wariness or a hesitation that Arya did not completely understand. It was not antagonistic, and the two did not avoid each other, but there seemed a space between them when they spoke or spent time together that neither seemed willing to step foot into. A little nagging voice in the back of her head whispered just what it might be, given the proclivities of Targaryens, but that was a hive of bees she did not want to disturb now. Not while there were much larger problems at hand - problems Jon would need all his wits to face.

One way or another, he would have to repeat the act that had set all this in motion. This war would end with him having to kill Daenerys one more time, or giving the order for her to be killed; knowing Jon, he would never ask someone to do the dirty work for him. He never asked someone to wade through the muck if he himself was unwilling to do so. He had to be ready for it. She would make sure. There was no other choice.

The first guards they found were Tully men, which made it easier for her. Not that it was difficult either way, but it didn't feel such a waste when she slit the throats of her uncle's guardsmen, as much as it would have if she was harming Stark men. A man-at-arms with leather armor and a kite shield emblazoned with the Tully colors and sigil crumpled to the ground as she ran the dagger across his throat, with her hand muffling his choking cries as he tried to keep his lifeblood from draining out. She didn't watch Jon or the Crannogmen, but from the soft hissing noises, she knew she they were using the poisoned blowdarts the Crannogmen were famous for.   
  
The supply train was long, and they would not be able to kill all the guards and destroy all the supplies in secrecy. Eventually, they would be found, so they wasted no time. Horses were slaughtered, oxen were butchered, and they began to set fire to the supply wagons and tents using the torches dropped by the train guards and their campfires. A clamor went up as guards up and down the train realized what was happening, but they walked into an ambush by the Crannogmen, stepping into a deadly crossfire of poisoned darts and arrows. Arya pulled out a short bow she had chosen for the occasion, fitting an arrow to it and setting it on fire using a nearby wagon that was ablaze. She shot an arrow towards an untouched wagon, which began to catch fire. The crannogmen and Jon followed suit, and fire arrows began to speck the night sky, like fireflies shooting up and down in the air. Sansa's armies supplies went up in flames, and soon men would come streaming in from all directions to save their supplies. The damage was done; it was time to leave - for her companions, anyway.

In the midst of the chaos, she found Jon, tugging at his cloak to get his attention. When he spun around, his eyes narrowed and he shook his head, no doubt having read her thoughts.

"Arya, no. There's no time."

"I'm just going to pass a message. Nothing else."

"It's bloody dangerous, Arya. Not to mention unnecessary," Jon said. "What do you think will happen, she'll be dissuaded because we burned some of her supplies? You know Sansa. She's not going to give up that easily."

Arya wanted to yell at him, tell him that Sansa would see reason once she knew that Daenerys was coming, but she wasn't sure herself. She knew the depths of paranoia that existed within those who had learned the game in the Red Keep. Sansa was one of them. She would find a reason, some twisted logic in her mind to push aside what was necessary for what she felt was necessary. She had to try, nonetheless.

"Jon, do you trust me?"

"Of course I do, Arya," Jon huffed. He shook his head, evidently realizing that he would not convince her otherwise. "Be back at Castle Black before dawn. We're going beyond the Wall then. If you're late, go to the Nightfort. There's a secret passageway there, under the castle. Don't tarry, cross the Wall quickly. I'd hate to knock the bloody thing down while you're still crossing it."

She gave him a quick embrace before he broke off with the Crannogmen, back to the lake, hugging the sides of the water until he would make it back to their horses and ride for Castle Black. She, on the other hand, set about quickly finding a suitable face.

* * *

There was a clamor in Sansa's camp when she got there. Her commanders and lords were awake, grim-faced, and foul of mood, having lost many their supplies and staring down a difficult choice. She knew Sansa would eventually drive them to battle, but it would be a struggle, even then.

She blended into her role well, wearing the face she'd taken with skill. No one was able to tell that she was anyone other than who she said she was, a Stark man at arms who busied himself helping out in the camp, assisting with the relief efforts of the supply train. It was only when the commanders and lords streamed out of Sansa's tent that she knew it was safe to approach. Lady Brienne was outside, standing tall with Oathkeeper at her side. Podrick Payne was there, too - old friends, fond friends, but now on the side of the enemy. She had no intent to hurt them, but she feared the worst before it was all over. Brienne of Tarth did not take her oaths lightly, and she feared they would lead to her demise in Sansa's service.

She would never be allowed in as a man at arms, not while Sansa was inside. She needed another face, and she knew exactly which one she'd take. She spotted her target slinking away from the meeting, flanked by two of his own guards, heading towards his own tent. The guards stood outside, but with the camp emptied of many soldiers who had taken off towards the supply train, slitting their throats was a matter of mere seconds. She dragged their bodies inside the tent quickly, as her target spun around in surprise at the sudden grating noise of the armor being clunkily dragged along the muddy ground.

"Who- who are you?" he said fearfully, his hand falling towards his sword. Arya did not bother tearing off her current face for her real one. Cley Cerwyn was insignificant, and a traitor. House Cerwyn had broken faith with House Stark, as far as she was concerned, and now winter was coming for them. She ducked under the man's awkward swing, shoving her dagger into the man's foot and Needle into his throat, holding a gloved hand over his mouth to stifle his death rattle. As he bled out in his tent, she removed her dagger from his boot and put him out of his misery quickly.

She donned his face, becoming Cley Cerwyn, obtaining his voice, his accent. The rest she had to do herself - the glamour of the faces only gave her the image and the sound. The mannerisms, the behavior - that all had to be learned. She did not have much time to observe Cerwyn during the war or after, but she had seen his walk, his cadence of speech, well enough to at least get her way into Sansa's tent. Still, it did not stop Brienne from barring her from entering when she made her way back to Sansa's tent.

"Hold there, Lord Cerwyn. State your business," she said gruffly. Her eyes were wary, darting from side to side as if she was expecting something terrible to happen. Of course, she would. It was on a night like this that she had lost Renly Baratheon to a shadow spawned by the Red Priestess and Stannis, or so she had learned later. Old habits and old fears died hard.

"I have a message for the Queen," Arya said. She refrained from calling Brienne 'Ser' or giving her the respect she truly felt. The less she spoke, the less she divulged, the better - the fewer people would realize that Cley Cerwyn was acting rather strangely. "It concerns her sister."

Brienne eyed her suspiciously. "And what news could you possibly have of Arya Stark?"

Arya shook her head - Cley's head - in exasperation. "Members of my household were visiting Braavos. I received a raven from them just now. It is urgent, and the Queen must know. Arya Stark is alive and she's headed here."

Brienne still looked at her suspiciously, but Sansa's voice wafted from inside the tent, commanding Brienne to let her in, and the Queensguard grimaced and parted away, allowing Arya to enter. Arya gave her a small nod as if giving her respect for the level of care she took with the Queen.

Sansa was alone inside, wearing riding clothes and a small iron circlet atop her head. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and the bags beneath her eyes were more pronounced than usual. The war was wearing down on her. 

_Good,_ Arya thought.

"You said you have news of my sister, Lord Cerwyn. I was unaware that you had any eyes and ears in Braavos."

"I don't, Your Grace," Arya said. "Only my steward went to Braavos to procure a shipment of purple dye, the one they're famous for over there. He saw Manderlys meeting with Princess Arya. He sent a raven saying she's coming back home."

"Gods, Arya..." Sansa looked stricken, finding a chair and taking a seat. "Did your steward say anything else?"

"Only one thing, Your Grace." Arya tugged under her chin, hooking her fingers underneath the face. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." She peeled off the face, the glamour fading as she no longer was Cley Cerwyn, and as Arya Stark of Winterfell, all five feet of her, stood in front of her sister in her dark wools and leather armor, her hand over Needle and her valyrian dagger.

Sansa took two steps back, nearly stumbling and falling, but Arya grabbed her by the clothes and steadied her. "Not another noise, Sansa. I'd hate to spill Podrick's guts all over the ground tonight," she hissed.

Sansa looked as if she'd seen a ghost, her face even paler than usual, which made her red hair stand even more in contrast to her skin. She looked with a mixture of wonder and fright at her as if a White Walker had suddenly appeared in her midst without warning. 

"Y-you can't... no, I'm hallucinating, this is just a-" Sansa stuttered.

"No, it's not a dream, and you're not hallucinating," Arya spat. "I'm here, Sansa. It's me. Imagine my bloody surprise when I come home after more than a year at sea to find my sister and my brother at war with each other. What in seven hells are you thinking?"

Sansa, to her credit, managed to regain her composure enough to answer her. "I'm defending the North, Arya, what does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking care of House St-"

Arya wanted to slam her fist on the nearby table, but she refrained from doing so. "Sansa, House Stark is on the other side of the war from you! Bran and Meera have taken Jon's side. I'm with Jon, too. How can you do this to your own brother?"

"He's not my brother, and he's not yours, either," Sansa hissed. "He's one of _them._ He's not a Stark."

"It's Jon, Arya, how can you even think that? What, did you confuse him for Cersei Lannister or Petyr Baelish? Have you known Jon to scheme and plot to overthrow other people-"

"He set himself up as a King beyond the Wall, challenging the North, challenging my throne, Arya. I gave him a chance to bend the knee, take the black, and live out in peace, but-"

"So you could have him out of the way and so that no one would question your rule. You couldn't have that while there was a son of Lyanna Stark still running around, could you? Not while Jon looks so much like Father that every one of our bannermen that looks at him falls in line, even if his last name is Targaryen?" Arya rubbed her forehead in exasperation. "We don't have time to fight, Sansa. If our pack is tearing itself apart, we will all die alone when winter comes."

"Winter is far off," Sansa said, but Arya shook her head.

"Sansa, winter is coming. Those are our words. We know that hard times lay ahead always, hard times come, and unless we are prepared, we die. Winter is coming for House Stark and its name is Daenerys Targaryen. She's alive. She's coming back to Westeros."

Sansa gaped at her for a moment, clearly struck by the enormity of her words before she closed her mouth and scowled at Arya. "I don't believe you. This is a deception from Jon, along with the attack on the supplies, clearly meant to bring me to parley. He knows he'll lose in battle."

"How can you be so selfish, Sansa? Even if you win here, you'll... what? You'll be the queen of nothing but the ashes when Daenerys comes here again. You won't get a chance to be the King Who Knelt. She'll let Drogon loose in Winterfell and the North and she'll burn our homes and kill our people. There'll be nothing left when she's done. Jon is our best chance against the coming storm."

"I don't believe you, Arya. And even if I did, Cersei was kind enough to demonstrate the efficacy of scorpions against them for me," Sansa snarled. "Why are you here?"

"To talk some sense into you. What would Father think?" Arya gave Sansa a look of disgust.

"Why does everyone talk about what Father would have thought? Father died because he didn't think enough!" Sansa said, her voice rising. Arya had known it would be futile, but Sansa's obstinacy still disappointed her. She shook her head in disappointment and paced away to the rear of the tent, tearing a hole through the canvas. She turned around to face her sister.

"If you were anyone else, Sansa, I'd slit your throat and leave you here to die in your own blood." Sansa went paler at that, if it was even possible. "But I'm no kinslayer. Think about my words. If reason should return to you, parley with Jon."

"I'll never subject the North to a dragon ever again," Sansa shot back, but Arya did not pay her words any more attention. Sansa was too far gone, too lost in her own paranoia and power-lust. Arya disappeared through the canvas hole and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware Cley Cerwyn died in the books thanks to that asshole Ramsay, but since Cley seems to be the head of House Cerwyn after the Battle of the Bastards, I've chosen to retain him here.
> 
> Yes, I thought about it being Glover, but Glover deserves a more satisfying send-off, wouldn't you agree?


	19. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Rhaenys discuss possibilities. One last attempt at parley.

**Jon - VI**

If Rhaenys paced any harder, Jon knew he’d have to strap her to a chair to keep her from moving. Instead, he watched silently as the woman strode from end to end of his tent, only pausing the by entry flap to peer through, as if Arya would arrive any moment.

“She’ll be fine, Rhaenys. Sit down before you rip your feet apart,” Jon said. Rhaenys shot him a withering look, before easing her expression and letting out a sigh. She finally stopped pacing and found a chair, but she was no less fidgety in that, either.

“You’ve seen her in action, so you shouldn’t be worried,” Jon offered. It was true – his worries for Arya’s health stemmed from the habits of an older brother. He’d seen her in action enough to know that she was more than capable of handling herself. And whatever else Sansa was, she wouldn’t kill her own full-blood sister – or so he hoped. If he was honest with himself, he knew little and less of what Sansa was capable of now. A rational Sansa would never, but this Sansa wasn’t rational. She seemed unhinged, with a little air of madness surrounding her whenever they had met. She almost reminded him of Cersei Lannister in that way, before the end.

What worried him the most was not Arya’s safety behind enemy lines, but what he would have to do with Sansa if he somehow managed to win.

“I’m not…” she closed her eyes before opening them again. “All right, I am worried. She’s my best friend. The only friend I’ve ever had. She’s your sister, Jon.”

“Well, I wasn’t happy about it. But try restraining Arya from doing what she wants, I dare you. More like than not, she’ll be halfway around the world in a ship before she’ll listen to you, and you know that,” Jon said with a snort. “Would I rather she be here by my side? Yes, of course, but she’ll be fine.” He shook his head and ran a dry hand across his face, the taut skin rubbing harshly against his cold face. He leaned over, closer to the fire, and warmed his hands against it. “I need your counsel, Rhaenys.”

She stopped fidgeting and looked at him curiously, a single exquisite eyebrow arched. “What do you mean, ‘my counsel?’”

“You know, advice, guidance-“

“I know what the word means,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Jon didn’t fail to note, however, that her mouth twitched upwards, threatening to form that lovely smile of hers.

_Lovely smile?_

“I’m just not accustomed to being asked for it. Egg never did,” she finished, looking at her feet.

“Well, from what you’ve described, Aegon doesn’t strike me as the smartest man. You read a lot, you know a lot. It doesn’t always equate to intelligence, and even when it does, a man can make mistakes. Ask Sam or Lord Tyrion. But it’s usually a good sign.” Jon crossed his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “So, I need your advice, Princess. Specifically, about what I should do with Sansa after this is over.”

“Sansa?” Rhaenys repeated. “I had been thinking of this, actually. It poses a bit of a riddle for you. First, I should ask, what are your intentions with the North? You are already King beyond the Wall. Do you plan on adding King in the North to this list of titles?”

Jon rubbed his chin contemplatively. “Would the Lords follow Bran, you think?”

“Do you want to build a coalition of kings and queens to fight Daenerys? Or would you rather unite the other Seven – or the Six, as it were, given that Dorne will likely aid Daenerys no matter what – and face her as the Lord of the Eight Kingdoms?” Rhaenys watched him carefully as he mulled it over.

Jon sighed. “It’s so bloody much to rule, but if the kingdoms are independent, they’ll just fight and fight over this creek or that river and some bloody meadow and there’ll be blood all the time.”

“I agree,” she said. “A strong central authority would help quell the warfare Westeros has seen. Fractured kingdoms would result in politics and warfare, and eventually, some ambitious conqueror would manage to unite the Kingdoms anyway. I suggest you offer Winterfell to Brandon to hold for you as Warden of the North. Functionally, you can pass off most of the responsibility to Brandon and Meera, you secure a safe and peaceful North as a neighbor for beyond the Wall, and you maintain your claim to be ruler of two kingdoms with Brandon as your vassal.”

“And the Riverlands?”

“That’s trickier,” Rhaenys said. “I suppose the simplest thing to do would be to secure a very public pledge from Edmure Tully. If you appoint Bran Warden of the North, and depending on what happens with the Vale, you may be able to neutralize the Riverlands as a potential enemy. The other thing is that you could strip the Tullys of their lands and titles and give the Riverlands to someone else. You don’t even have to strip the lands, actually. Riverrun is not the greatest castle in its own territory, nor are the Tullys the most prestigious or powerful family.”

“You mean I could hand someone else lordship of the Riverlands,” Jon stated. “Someone like the Mallisters or… hells, even that sellsword, Bronn,” he chuckled.

“No,” Rhaenys said. “Not the sellsword, if for no other reason that a former sellsword would never command the respect of the Riverlords, even if he does rule the Twins. He doesn’t have the connections or the family. He doesn’t have strong marriage alliances.”

“He has two thousand foot and five hundred knights,” Jon pointed out, but he knew he was simply playing advocate for the other side. Rhaenys was right.

“Men alone don’t win wars, Jon. Father outnumbered Robert Baratheon at the Trident.”

Both fell silent at that, but Jon could sense Rhaenys’ eyes on him as if challenging him to respond.

“What was he like?” Jon said quietly. “Do you remember him, at all?”

Rhaenys gave him a sad smile. “Not as well as I would like.”

Jon winced internally. He had made peace with the fact that Lyanna Stark – a woman he had forever thought to be his aunt – was his mother, but he had not spared much thought for Rhaegar, not even when taking up his Targaryen name. Part of it was because he simply did not want to confront that reality, nor the nagging thought that had visited him late at night long before that the actions of his parents had led to the death of so many – including his half-siblings, who had now turned up alive.

“Now, as for what to do with Sansa… I suppose you can’t have her head.” She laughed when Jon gave her a wary look. “I’m only jesting. You could defer her punishment to Brandon, of course, as your Warden. Alternatively, you could allow her to retire to the Vale with her future lord husband, but as I understand it, there’s a significant risk that Harrold Hardyng might become the future King of Mountain and Vale.”

“I would be within my rights to pass it off to Bran, but it would look weak. And I can’t risk having the Eyrie fall into Sansa’s hands.” Jon sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “Gods, if she was anyone else, I would have her head and be done with it. But she’s my blood. Fath- Uncle Ned,” he said, casting a look at Rhaenys, “raised us all as siblings.”

“You can call him Father, Jon,” Rhaenys said quietly. “The man raised you as his own. As far as I can tell, he did a decent job at it too.”

“It doesn’t feel…” Jon trailed off, searching his mind for the right words.

“Right? But it does for you. It’s the first name you gravitate towards when you think of the word. I won’t begrudge you that.” She straightened in her seat. “I can’t. We’re grown adults. We’re entire people that didn’t know the other existed. There are layers to us we’ve only begun to understand. I can’t ask you to change something so deeply ingrained in your sense of self. As it stands, I was rather overjoyed to find out you’d embraced the name.” She stood and paced over to the Targaryen banner, white dragon on black, and touched the fringe of the cloth, before turning back and smiling at him. “Even if you did change the color.”

“I kept the black,” Jon chuckled. “It was always my color.”

“Aye, ‘King Crow’,” Rhaenys said, mocking the thick First Man accent of the Free Folk. “So really, there must be some Targaryen in you.” She burst into a rather undignified giggle and sat back down in her chair, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself. In her riding breeches and Northern wool, she seemed a little tom-boyish, though her long hair belied her femininity. Even if she was older than him by two years, Jon couldn’t help but feel she seemed younger. She had an ability to seem unburdened and calm even if she didn’t feel that way. Jon hadn’t known her long – a sennight was hardly a long time – but he was beginning to gain a sense for her character.

“You could exile her,” Rhaenys continued, in thought. “I’d say send her to Essos, but if Daenerys hears that she’s there, it’s effectively a death sentence. The last – perhaps best – option is if she’s still unmarried, you break her betrothal to Harrold Hardyng and marry her to one of your most loyal lords.” Rhaenys' words turned harsh and she narrowed her eyes. “Some small lord, with a small keep, with little men, no trading routes, and little influence. The moment she bears heirs of a different name, her claims to Winterfell will be gone. Not when Brandon has a trueborn Stark child.”

“I won’t,” Jon interjected. “I could hate her, but I wouldn’t sell her like a broodmare, not after what she’s been through. And I wouldn’t do it to Arya either.” He paused. “Or to you.”

“I’d be fine with a marriage alliance if it meant helping secure your rule,” Rhaenys shot back, but Jon was having none of it.

“But would you be happy?”

“What does that have to do with it?” Rhaenys said, her voice raising a little. “Do you think just because my only companions in Asshai were books that I think life is a song and dance of knights and fair maidens, of love and chivalry? Power is like a tree. It can grow old and powerful, but only if you tend it, water it, and protect it from the cold and the heat every day and every night. The right marriages help build power.”

“Aye, but you’d be daft if you think I’d sell you just to sit on a throne, watch you grow old and bitter having babes for some fat lordling just because I needed his men and his knights. To the seven hells with that,” Jon said.

“You can’t be naïve about this, Jon, or any other decision. We’re not facing naïve enemies. We have to win, and that means making tough decisions.”

Jon felt irked at that. “And what tough decisions have you had to make? Have you ever sent men to their deaths? Told them you would lead them safely to the other side of a dark night knowing they’d be dead come morn?”

Rhaenys stood now, her voice clearly angry. Jon could have sworn he saw a flash of moisture in her eyes. “I abandoned my only blood to come here to someone I didn’t even know hoping he’d be a smarter man than the brother I left behind. I’m starting to…” she bit her lip and stiffened, giving Jon a mocking curtsy. “Thank you for your time, your Grace. If that’ll be all tonight, I’ll retire to my tent.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and marched out.

 _Seven hells, what have I done_ , Jon groaned internally. Rhaenys being upset with him was the last thing he had wanted, and it had gone so well until the turn to the topic of marriage. Why was she so upset at the idea that Jon didn’t want to sell her off? Surely, she did not want to be forced into marriage with just any lord. He remembered the bargain that Robb had struck with Walder Frey. Aye, Robb had agreed to take a Frey as his queen, but he was King. It was his duty to his people. Including Arya in that bargain was not something Jon would have ever done, nor would Arya have ever stood for it.

He sat quietly in his tent for a while, the entry flap fluttering in Rhaenys’ wake. A chill crept into his tent, and as he stood to close the flapping entrance, Arya stalked through furiously, her eyes filled with rage.

“Sansa’s bloody mad.” She grabbed a bottle of wine and two goblets, pouring a large cup for herself (and a much smaller one for Jon). Jon gestured at the open chair Rhaenys had left behind and Arya sank into it, draining her goblet quickly as Jon sipped at his, peering at his sister over the brim of his cup.

"They're coming through tomorrow," Arya said flatly. "They were hot on my heels before the last of your men got me through Castle Black."

“Tomorrow? Her whole army?" Jon asked.

Arya nodded. "If I had to bet, Hardyng and the Vale's cavalry will cross first."

Jon sighed. "I’m glad you’re alright. Done so quickly that I didn’t have to worry about whether I’d be bringing the Wall down on your head in a few days’ time,” Jon muttered.

Arya glanced at him darkly. “Your concern is appreciated but I wasn’t in any real danger.” She took a slower sip this time, before adding, “Cerwyn is dead, by the way. I needed a face to use.”

“Arya,” Jon groaned. “Aye, I might have had Cerwyn’s head after the battle, but-“

“Give it a rest, Jon. The Cerwyns had no marriages and no one to get upset if they die. His mother was some White Harbor merchant’s daughter.”

“Still…”

“Longclaw removing his head or my dagger cutting open his neck. It doesn’t matter. Our way is the old way,” Arya said firmly, her voice ending the discussion.

“Fair enough.” Jon wasn’t about to let his hesitation cause a fight with another sister, not tonight anyway. He was already at war with one, managed to upset another, and Arya was the deadliest of them all. He wasn’t keen on getting on her bad side. “You spoke to Sansa?”

Arya snorted. “As much as one can speak to a brick wall. You were right, she’s lost it, Jon. There’s paranoia in there that rivals the one in Cersei Lannister. Give Tyrion time around her and he’d tell you he’d seen his sister’s ghost.”

“But you had to try,” Jon offered.

“Aye, I did.” She took another gulp of the wine. “Where’s Rhaenys?”

“Anxiously awaiting your arrival. And in her tent.” Jon sighed.

“What is it?”

“I think I upset her. All I bloody said is that I wouldn’t sell her off to some lord just to make myself stronger. She thought I was being naïve. An argument spiraled from there.”

Arya laughed. “I’m convinced you dragons can’t help but tear each other apart. She's right, you know. You can't have any room for weakness, not with Daenerys at the gates."

“All I said was that I wanted her to be happy in her marriage!” Jon protested. “Is that a crime, to want what’ll make her happiest?”

“Don’t make happy the enemy of content, Jon,” Arya warned. “Very few people get a chance at true happiness in this life. Sometimes it’s best to grab onto content and settle for it.”

“Arya," Jon grunted. "You may bloody well be the last person who should say that."

"It's not the same with Gendry. He wouldn't have-"

"You don't know what Gendry would or wouldn't have done, Arya. You didn't give him too much time to explain." Arya gave him a fierce look, and Jon raised his hand. "Look, that's not the issue right now, and I don't want to pick a fight with you either if I can help it. I just want what's best for all of you. What if I marry Rhaenys off to someone like Ramsay? To someone like Joffrey or Euron? You think I'd ever be able to look her in the eye knowing she was miserable, knowing I'd sold her into that for a throne?"

“You’d never marry her off to someone like that, but you promise me you won’t hide her away waiting for the perfect hero, either. Gods, you’re as bad as Sansa was as a child, waiting for a storybook prince. If there’s a decent enough lord, one who’ll treat her right, and Rhaenys is willing, you marry her if that's what she wants. I would never do it, but I believe she should at least be able to choose.” Arya finished her goblet and wiped her lips before standing. “I’ll go talk to her, make her realize you’re only a well-meaning idiot. Now try and think things through before you talk.” She stalked back out of the tent, leaving Jon with his mouth agape, wondering just what had happened.

* * *

Jon felt a rustling outside his tent. His eyes were bleary, full of sleep, and his mouth felt strangely metallic. He sat up in bed, balancing on his elbows. Someone was undoing the closed flap, and before he could fully rise, they had slipped in. He shot up from his bed, grabbing the knife on the stand next to him, before turning to face the intruder. His grip loosened as he came face to face with Rhaenys, who held a small lantern. She was dressed in a loose nightgown that fell to her ankles but had draped a cloak and furs around her to traverse through the chilly night back to his tent. Her hair was loose and undone, wavy and black, flowing down to her shoulders, curling at the tips. Jon couldn’t help but notice, yet again, just how strikingly beautiful she was, though yet again her beauty was accompanied with sadness. She placed the lantern on a desk in the corner of the tent and approached him.

Jon put away the knife and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Seven hells."

"Your guards let me in," she said, gathering the hem of her clothes around her as she sat on the foot of his bed. She eyed the knife. "Don't trust them?"

"I do, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

She peered at his pillow. "You're not hiding Ghost behind there, are you?"

"He's hunting nearby." Jon swirled his tongue around in his mouth, tasting metal again. He realized what it was straight away. Ghost was feasting when he woke.

"Jon, I wanted to say-"

"I'm sorry too, Rhaenys."

She looked at him with surprise. Jon made a face at her. "What, do you think you're the only one who got scolded by Arya tonight?" he queried.

Rhaenys laughed. "I suppose not. Still, I shouldn't have left like that. It wasn't respectful or right."

Jon looked at her with confusion. "Rhaenys, I'm not 'Your Grace' in private. Not with any of my family." Her face lit up with a small smile when he said that. "It's different in court, in front of my banners, but I'd rather you be honest to my face than carry a grudge behind my back."

"I'm not like that," Rhaenys added quickly. "Like Sansa. I didn't mean to be a painful reminder."

"You weren't. I can't say I know you very well but judging by your temper, you'd rather shout at me than whisper about me. I'll take that any day."

Rhaenys seemed to weigh her words before speaking. Her hand snaked out and found his, gripping it. It was soft and warm to the touch, pleasant and small. "I didn't mean what I was about to say. I don't regret coming here."

"Not even a little bit?" Jon asked. "I'm not accusing you. You just - well, you grew up with Aegon. You've known him his whole life. You've known me for a sennight."

"Not at all. Like I told you... the lengths Aegon is willing to go to are too far for me." She pulled up her feet and tucked them underneath the seat of her pants, leaning back. "I couldn't sleep."

"I'd say the same but it'd be a lie." He put two fingers in his mouth, feeling the metallic taste. "I think I warged into Ghost for a bit. He was eating. I can taste the hare in my mouth still." Rhaenys looked at him with her mouth open.

"You're a warg too? Like Brandon?" she asked excitedly. The quickness with which her natural curiosity leaped back into her voice was humorous, but Jon found he rather enjoyed it.

"Not as strong as Bran, and it's only with Ghost. I never tried with Rhaegal or with any animal. I don't think I'll try with Lyagar either. Why couldn't you sleep?"

Rhaenys fidgeted. "It didn't feel right, going to sleep like that, with my words with you full of anger. What if something happened to you tomorrow and that was the last thing I ever said to you?"

"Nothing's going to happen to me tomorrow," Jon said.

"Don't coddle me, Jon. Sansa Stark is on the other side of the Wall. She'll likely march through tomorrow morning. Death can come for anyone. All it takes is a misstep, a stray arrow, or muddy ground. Can you promise me that you'll come back alive?"

"I can't," Jon admitted. "I could say the words, make you feel better, but you and I know there's no guarantee. You'll just have to trust me."

"I do." Rhaenys reached under her furs and pulled out a small orange cloth strip. "Give me your arm."

"What?"

"Humor me."

He held out his arm for her, and she tied the small orange cloth strip around his wrist, looping it twice for a secure fit before knotting it in place. "There. A small favor from me. For luck. And to remind you that if you don't make it back, I'll be very cross," she said, sternness in her voice. She held up his wrist and kissed the cloth, but Jon felt her lips on his pulse, and goosebumps shot over his skin. Their eyes met and locked for a moment, dark grey on indigo, before he broke contact and so did she. Rhaenys stood and made to leave the tent before she turned at the entrance to look back at him one last time. 

"Good night, Jon." She slipped through the entrance, and Jon's gaze traveled back down to the orange loop fitted snugly around his wrist.

"Good night, Rhaenys," he whispered.

* * *

In the morning, Jon sat in front of the armor that he had been gifted by Gendry. It had arrived a fortnight ago in their camp, accompanied by a young lord from the Stormlands named Ronald Storm, claiming to be the son of Ronnet Connington, charged with delivering the gift to King Aemon Targaryen. Ronald was a young man, no more than sixteen, fresh-faced and eager. He had requested to stay on as a visitor and had become something of a squire, though Jon had expressly told him he was not entering into the battle today. He didn't want any complications with the boy's father, or with the Stormlands.

The armor was black half-plate, covering his torso. The chestpiece had a large three-headed white dragon on it - Jon was still unsure how Gendry had managed to predict his sigil, as no one had seen his new banners south of the Neck - and there were overlapping plates on his shoulders and upper forearms. The gorget was likewise dark but had two white wolf heads, both snarling at each other. Mail had been exquisitely worked into the gaps and the exposed areas around the armpit, the neck, and the groin, so much so that it did not add to the weight of the armor, which was already rather light for its size, and reduced the need to wear mail underneath. Instead, Jon donned a black leather jerkin, and wore vambraces and greaves of dark boiled leather. The armor came with a smaller cloak, also in black, also emblazoned with a white three-headed dragon.

Ronald helped him ready, and when the armor was on, Jon bade him to prepare his horse and to summon the lords and chiefs of his army. As Ronald slipped out, he heard someone shuffle in.

"Is that you, Arya?" Jon said. He received no answer, but two arms snaked around him, tying his belt to his waist, and fitting Longclaw into his scabbard. Jon spun around to see Rhaenys standing behind him. Her eyes were baggy, and she had clearly not slept well, but she was otherwise still well-prepared for the day. Her hands clutched his helmet, and she stared at it forlornly. The helmet was open-faced, but had large dragon wings on the side, pinned back against the side of the helm, and included a large chin guard of the same black metal with leather and trimmed fur backing that covered his face from the nose below, carved into the snarl of a feral beast - passably either wolf or dragon.

"I imagine this is what Father would have looked like before going into battle," she said quietly. "More red than white, but a dragonlord all the same. Don't you go out there and die like he did, Jon."

Jon took the helmet out of her hands and placed it on the small stool next to him. He undid one vambrace and showed him his wrist, her orange favor still tied to it. "My promise is right here. I will see you after the battle is over. You haven't slept at all, have you?"

Rhaenys shook her head no. "I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard men screaming and horses dying. I could almost feel the blood and carnage." Her eyes shut. "Are you good at it? Killing?"

"Aye," Jon said. "But I never enjoyed it. I promise I'll make it quick. We have bigger problems than Sansa."

Ronald Storm burst back into the tent, shouting. "Your Grace, I-". His eyes darted to Rhaenys and he bowed. "Your Graces, forgive the intrusion. Lord Manderly wishes to inform you that a small party has crossed the Wall through Castle Black and is riding here under flag of parley. He believes Queen Sansa is among them."

"Thank you, Ronald. Go inform the Lords and Chiefs that I expect their attendance at my party. Did Lord Manderly say how big Sansa's party was?"

"Forty men, give or take, Your Grace," Ronald replied. "Multiple sigils. I saw Ryswell, Dustin, Glover, Mallister, Tully, and one from the Vale I did not quite recognize. It was quartered, two counts of the Arryn sigil and one of the Waynwood, and red and white diamonds in the other."

"That'll be Harry the Heir," Jon muttered. "Inform Lord Manderly to assemble forty of our lords and knights. We shall answer in equal. I will be there shortly."

"Your Grace." Ronald bowed again to both of them, hastily, before running back out the tent.

"You're coming with me. Wait a moment, I have a smaller riding cloak here somewhere." Jon rummaged around in a storage chest of his, rifling through items of clothing, looking for the cloak. When he found it, he helped Rhaenys put it on, fitting it to her neck with a dark iron brooch. The black cloak draped over her blue and grey wools, and though it would not have been a full cloak for Jon, it nearly was for her.

"There. Every inch the Targaryen princess," Jon said. "Feel ready for your first public appearance?"

* * *

They took a circuitous route out of their camp in the Haunted Forest - Jon didn't want to give away the position of his army by marching in a straight line to and from. Arya was in their party, as was Bran. Meera had wanted to come, too, but she grew more and more pregnant by the day and neither Jon nor Bran was in favor of putting the child at risk. Their changed route caused them to approach Sansa's waiting party from the side rather than from the front. Sansa was at the head, as were some of the Northern lords. Jon also saw Edmure Tully sneering at him from the front, and the sandy-haired man he knew to be Harrold Hardying.

"You stand in the presence of Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen in the North, of the Trident, and of the First Men, Lady of Winterfell, the Red Wolf, Boltonbane," droned Robett Glover. Jon eyed him with murder in his eyes - before the day was out, he knew which head he wanted to take the most.

Before Tyrion could announce him, it was Rhaenys who spurred her horse forward. "You stand in the presence of Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of his Name, King Beyond the Wall, the White Wolf, the Dragon in the North, Commander of the Free Folk, Prince of Dragonstone, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and rightful Lord of the Eight Kingdoms."

"Who is this servant you have to speak for you, Jon?" called out Sansa. "Have you moved on from your dragon queen so quickly?"

"You may address me directly, Lady Sansa," Rhaenys said coldly, drawing herself up to her full height. "And with proper respect. I expect your lady mother did not neglect to educate you on how one addresses their superiors."

Sansa squinted at her. "I see some Dornish wench. Do you think marriage to a so-called king-"

"She's not my queen," Jon interjected. "And you will address her with respect, Sansa. I have the pleasure of announcing Princess Rhaenys of the House Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia of the House Martell - my half-sister."

"Impossible," spluttered Edmure Tully. "Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen were killed by the Lannisters during the Rebellion."

"A regrettable but necessary deception, Lord Edmure," Rhaenys said. "My mother, it would seem, had a better grasp on Tywin Lannister's intentions than did the Mad King."

Arya spurred her horse forward next. "I take it I don't have to introduce myself to most of you lords," she said, eyeing everyone with distaste. "Hopefully you still remember me, Uncle Edmure."

"Niece," Edmure replied.

"I can vouch for Princess Rhaenys. She is who she says she is. I was the one who brought her back from Essos."

It was a lord Jon didn't recognize immediately who spoke next, but judging from his age and the eagle on his sigil, Jon surmised him to be Jason Mallister. "I dare ask the obvious question, but if you truly are Rhaenys Targaryen, what happened to your brother, Aegon?" He eyed Jon with a peculiar look. "If what you say is true, Prince Aegon survived too. And that would mean that he certainly has a better claim than Lord Aemon here."

"It is true, Aegon is alive," Rhaenys confirmed. Jon saw Sansa's eyes light up at that news, as if gleeful that she had found any information to weaken Jon's claim. "But unfortunately for all of us, Aegon has taken up common cause with Daenerys Targaryen."

There was a loud outburst among Sansa's party. Various lords shouted - some looked nervous, others disbelieving. "My lords," Jon interjected. "You know that I once died and was brought back by the Red Priests. So was Beric Dondarrion. It is conceivable that Daenerys Targaryen, too, could be resurrected."

"Drogon brought her corpse back to Asshai. The Red Priests and their High Priest, Benerro, resurrected her by sacrificing a hundred innocents on a pyre," Rhaenys recounted. "She and Aegon plan to march West, conquering their way through Essos and building a great army before invading Westeros. Daenerys plans on reclaiming her throne through fire and blood, and she reserves the greatest portion of her hate for the North." Her eyes bore into Sansa now, as if trying to plead with her to surrender before Daenerys brought doom upon them all. But if Jon could see anything, it was the stubborn madness that had dug into Sansa's mind. She would not yield.

"Lies," Sansa said, simply.

Jon nodded back in the party to Ronald, who was in the rear, a pack mule roped to his stallion. He dismounted and went to the two cages strapped on either side of the pack mule, and undid the locks. Jon stared directly at Sansa as twin screeching noises filled the air, and both parties fell completely silent.

The screeching drew closer, and with a swooping noise, Lyagar swept down from behind, curling around Jon's shoulders. Eliarron did the same with Rhaenys, though he perched on one shoulder rather than coiling. Both dragons were large enough to glide short distances, though they could not sustain flight for a very long time.

The demonstration had the intended effect on Sansa's party. Shouts and cries of fear and worry rang out, and Jon couldn't resist sharing a small grin with Rhaenys and Arya as Sansa's party reacted to the sight.

"These are our dragons, the new dragons of the House Targaryen," Jon announced. "The snow-white one is mine, and his name is Lyagar. The ochre one is Princess Rhaenys' and his name is Eliarron. Of course, Daenerys Targaryen still rides Drogon. And Prince Aegon has a dragon, too."

"Another Dance," Edmure shouted. "Gods help us."

"It may very well come down to it, my lord," Jon said. "But not if we can unite Westeros against her before her arrival. Individually, none of the kingdoms stand a chance against Daenerys, Drogon, and her legions. Together, we just might."

"You all put your faith in my brother to lead you past another enemy that threatened all of us," Arya said. "And did he not? He united almost all of Westeros against the threat. Even Jaime Lannister betrayed his sister to come and fight for Jon, for the living."

There were some grumbles of agreement in Sansa's party. While Jon did not hold out hope that they would defect to him over Sansa, they would certainly have second thoughts about today's battle. Perhaps their morale would break sooner.

"Bend the knee," Jon said. "Everyone present will be pardoned. The high lords of the North and Riverlands will join my war council. We will treat with Lord Robyn, with the Westerlands, the Crownlander lords, the Stormlanders, the Reach, and Dorne. We will present a united Westeros under the banner of the Dragon. We'll cast the invaders back into the sea. Every lord... except you, Lord Glover," Jon said, leveling his gaze at the balding old man. "I will have your head one way or another before this day is out. I name you Oathbreaker."

"We will not. My lords do not believe your lies, even if you have managed to hatch little dragons. After you are defeated, I will see them disposed of," Sansa said shrilly. "I don't believe you about Daenerys. Perhaps there is some truth to Aegon, but this is a lie meant to whittle away at my support. And I will deal with Aegon when the time comes." She looked behind Jon, at the Northern lords who had defected to his side. "I will have all your castles and your lands, traitors. And I will give them to worthy families, families who uphold their word to House Stark."

"I'll see your head on a pike before you touch my dragons," Rhaenys said coldly. "Of that, you have my word."

"We are upholding our word to House Stark," interjected young Larence Hornwood. "House Stark is better represented by the son of Lyanna Stark than by a trout masquerading as a wolf."

A rumble of laughter rolled in Jon's camp. "Trout Queen!" shouted Tormund from the back, loudly. Edmure Tully's face went red.

"This parley is over," Jon said, spurring his horse forward towards Sansa. "I know you won't see reason. I don't know what happened between us. I don't know if you always saw me as a threat, or if it only became that way when Lyanna Mormont made me king and not you. You are my sister, even if you don't think me your brother. But I will not let your madness get in the way of defeating the greater threat."

Sansa snarled at him. "I will have your head, traitor."

"So be it, Sansa," Jon said, sadly. "The Gods and Father know that I gave you every chance. My lords! Assemble our men."

Jon spurred away from her, and his party followed, but Rhaenys sat stock-still on her horse, Eliarron still perched on her shoulder. Jon turned back to look at her. Whatever words passed between Rhaenys and Sansa, he did not hear, but soon Rhaenys, too, came riding back, catching up to Jon and staring straight ahead. They rode in silence back to their camp, their horses trotting past the knotted trees of the Haunted Forest. When they arrived by the tents, Rhaenys clutched Jon's hand and paused both of them as the party went ahead.

"You will not let her touch Eliarron or Lyagar, Jon." Her eyes were steely now, no present hint of the fear or worry that had been in them before.

"I will not," Jon said, squeezing her hand.

"Swear it."

"By the Old Gods and the new."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chap is the one you all have been waiting for.
> 
> I just wanted to have some character moments before the battle. This honestly could have been two chapters, given the length, but no more dicking around. We're going to get to the battle next chapter.


	20. War for the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of the North is decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some housekeeping: THIS IS A MULTI-POV CHAPTER. Honestly, it was the only way to pull this off and do it justice. It won't have a place in the numerical system, so even though Jon, Rhaenys, Arya, Bran are all featured, it's not Jon - VII, Rhaenys - VI, Arya IV, or Bran III. Hopefully that makes sense.
> 
> It is also, as the kids say these days, a dummy thicc chapter. But worth the wait, I think
> 
> Posting this now because I know I have a busy week ahead, so you guys don't have to wait forever :)

**War for the North**

* * *

**Jon  
**

"You're giving it to me?" Bran said incredulously. He stared at the Horn of Joramun in his hands. "You found it, Jon. It should be you."

"No, it shouldn't. The Wall, the White Walkers... you're just as much a part of that story as I am. You and me both, little brother. Out of all the Starks, it started with us. Let it end with us," Jon said, with a small grin. 

They stood atop a hillock near the edge of the Haunted Forest. It was like a little bald man's crown, devoid of trees at the top. It provided a good vantage point on the plain in front of them, stretching far between the border of the forest and the gate at the base of the Wall, on the other side of Castle Black. A cool breeze wafted past them, but the sun did not shine over them. Grey clouds interspersed through the sky, raining a soft drizzle onto the Forest and the plain. It had made the ground a little slick and wet. Jon had to be careful not to slip in the mud - getting up with all his armor on could be difficult. Yet it had played perfectly into his strategy against Sansa's numerically superior forces. 

"It's funny. Remember Old Nan's stories?" Bran queried, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course I do. Which one have you got in mind? Not the one about the blue-eyed giant named Macomber."

"No, that was Robb's favorite. I meant the one about Brandon the Builder."

"Aye. Maybe they can call you Bran the Breaker, after you're done."

Bran placed the horn onto his saddle and looked out towards the plain. "I'm glad the Three-Eyed Raven left when it did. Yes, the sight could have helped you in war, but the Old God didn't care for human troubles. He was there to defeat his great enemy. All his plans and thoughts and machinations were bent to it. My own personality, my life, my wishes and dreams and hopes were all subsumed in his drive to accomplish that goal."

"You don't have to tell me, Bran. I'm glad my brother is back," Jon said, placing his hand on Bran's arm. His brother gave it a small squeeze in appreciation.

"I always thought they'd call me something like Bran the Broken, you know," he said wistfully.

"No, I think 'the Breaker' is much better." Jon tore his eyes away from his brother to Meera, who gave him a soft smile. "You'll make sure you both stay safe, goodsister?"

"Aye, I can do that. If not me, the two score guard you've placed around us," Meera said with a smirk. "I could handle it myself, you know."

"I bet you could," Jon said. "But we have to think about little Robb or little Lyanna's life in there." He pointed at Meera's belly. "I'm eager to meet my little nephew or niece, whenever they come into the world. I won't have anything happen to them before."

"We appreciate it, Jon," Bran said. "How will I know when to blow the horn?"

"I'll have one of my wargs send a raven to you. If you sense trouble, warg into an animal and find me - or find Ghost. If you touch his consciousness, I'll sense it. Stay safe, Bran. You too, Meera."

With that, Jon excused himself from his brother and goodsister, marching down the side of the hillock with Ronald Storm and Tormund in tow. At the base of the hillock, where the trees began again, Rhaenys was waiting for him, watching him carefully. She was dressed in drab wools and riding breeches, and she had tied Dark Sister to her hip. Jon noted the sword approvingly and gestured for Ronald and Tormund to advance without him.

"Will you stay here, with Bran and Meera?" Jon asked her.

"Yes. I can't think of anywhere I'd be of use, but I can't bear to look away and hide. I left Eliarron and Lyagar in the camp with some spearwives to guard them." Rhaenys said. Her eyes flitted towards the top of the hill. "Can I see everything from there?"

"Aye. It's as good a vantage point as any."

"And you're sure of the plan?"

Jon smiled at Rhaenys. Though she was doing a remarkable job of appearing stoic, Jon had begun to learn her tics, and he could tell that she was nervous. "I'm sure. You mustn't worry if things start happening differently. No plan really survives first contact with the enemy, anyway. I know we'll be fine."

"You know nothing, Jon Snow," she said back to him forlornly. He froze as the familiar words sent a jolt of lightning up his spine. She rarely called him Jon Snow, so why had she said that. Rhaenys seemed not to notice. Instead, she tugged at Dark Sister in its scabbard. "Don't make me come charging down this hill, sword in hand."

Jon shook himself from his reverie and laughed. "If you have to. Just remember. Stick 'em with the pointy end." He glanced at the muddy ground around them. He had fought in conditions like this. A sword would be of little use if the worst happened and it came down to muddy hand-to-hand like it had outside Winterfell against Ramsay. He unbuckled his dagger and gave it to her. "Take this. You'll most likely not need it, but if anyone gets too close... well, the principle is the same."

Rhaenys took the knife and studied him carefully, her eyes inscrutable. She quickly wrapped both her arms around him in a tight embrace, and let go just as quickly, before he could even react. "I'll see you after the battle, Jon." Without waiting for a response, and without turning back to look at him once more, she trampled up the hill to Bran and Meera. He saw her exchange an embrace with Meera and say some words to Bran.

More than anything else, he found himself hoping to survive the day, not simply because he wanted to live or because he knew he had more battles to fight, but because he knew he could not bear to break Rhaenys' heart.

* * *

**Arya**

_Bull,_

_I'm writing to you on the morning of battle. Sansa's forces will be upon us soon. Jon has a plan, of course. Who knows if it'll work, but if it does, it'll be a story for the ages. Something Old Nan would tell._

_If I see you, I will tell you._

Arya hesitated before penning the rest of the words.

_I have thought of you much lately. I really do hope to see you again._   
  
_Stay safe,_

_Arry._

Arya quickly wrapped the little scroll and sealed it in wax, before sliding it onto a leather tube slung around the raven. The raven eyed her inquisitively before taking flight and leaving.

"Who are you sending messages to?" Jon's voice broke into her thoughts.

"No one," Arya replied quickly, without a hint of a defensive tone. Once, she might have looked guilty, sounded guilty, but that Arya was long gone.

Jon, unlike anyone else, had a way of cutting through the walls she put up. He did not press her for a more specific answer, however, and she loved him for it. Her brother looked her once over, making sure the leather armor they had custom made for her was well fitted. Arya preferred to fight with a sword in one hand, but she had practiced with a shield, and Jon had insisted that she carry at least a middling sized buckler, if only for protection from projectiles. Her dagger, faithful as ever, was tied to her belt. 

"You're a true Northern warrior. Maege, Lyanna Mormont, they all would have been pleased to see you," Jon said. 

"So would Aunt Lyanna, I think," Arya said. That brought a smile to Jon's lips, and the siblings embraced quickly in the middle of their camp. Soldiers bustled to and fro, running as they prepared for battle. Some put out campfires, others took down tents, and yet others were hauling long, sharpened pieces of weirwood to the front line.

"Come, let's walk to the forward command. I need to speak to the lords one last time about the plan," Jon said, starting to walk in that direction. Arya joined him, and the two ventured in silence, even with the uproar and din of camp all around them.

Jon's lords and chiefs were seated around a large table in the command tent, still moving wooden pieces on a representative of the battlefield, arguing about the placement of spears and archers, cavalry and footmen. The room fell to a hush, however, as Jon walked in. It was still sometimes strange to her. Jon had always had ability in spades, but Arya had been so used to seeing it go ignored during her childhood in Winterfell that it was still bizarre how entire armies of men seemed to view Jon with nothing more than the highest respect, deferring to his voice, to his actions. He was no longer just a boy bastard of a noble house, nor a leader of men of the Night's Watch. He was a true king with the majesty of a dragon, a scion of House Targaryen. But in his demeanor, too, was the North, the blood of House Stark, the ferocity of the wolf.

"My lords," Jon boomed. "The time has come. I thank every one of you, whether you be Northern or Free Folk, whether you come from White Harbor or Dragonsreach, whether you came from the South with me, or you were in the North awaiting me. You are all good, loyal men - the best banners a king could ask for. Now I ask you to follow me into battle. I ask for your swords, for your shields, and for your blood and sweat and iron. Do I have it?"

"Aye!" shouted the lords and chiefs in unison. Arya smiled. A true king, indeed. "King Aemon!" "King Jon!" "White Wolf!" "Dragon of the North!"

"Then we go to it. Lord Manderly, have we established the defenses?"

"Aye, your Grace," said the portly, white-haired lord, gesturing at the table. "We've placed a line of stakes here, here, and here, all in little trenches. We've piled the dirt high on the enemy's side, so they shouldn't see it until it's too late. The crannogmen scouts went out earlier in the morning. Rain's left the ground muddy as hell, and their cavalry will have a bitch of a time crossing the mire."

"Good," Jon said. "You all know the battle plan. Make no mistake. If they surrender, we take them. We need every man capable of wielding a sword when it comes time to fight the great enemies."

"Except Lord Glover," Arya added. "I will grant him no quarter, and nor will the King. But if you capture him, you let him live. His head belongs to House Stark."

"Oathbreaker," rumbled the Wull. "His head belongs to the Jon." The other lords and chiefs assented, and Jon dismissed them with thanks and armshakes. Soon, the command tent lay empty, except for Arya, Jon, Tormund, and Ronald. 

"Where will you be?" Jon asked her, turning to face her. His face was unusually somber, and for a moment, Arya feared he would try and talk her out of fighting - not that it would work.

"I'm your shadow, Jon. Until you name a Kingsguard, I am your Kingsguard," Arya said simply.

"Your Grace, if I may," Ronald said, clearing his throat. "I know that you do not wish me to fight, but my uncle Jon Connington was devoted to your father. House Connington served Rhaegar Targaryen once. Let us serve you again."

"I don't know how King Gendry would feel about that," Jon said, with clear discomfort, but Arya's heart lightened at the mention of Gendry.

"If he wants to fight, let him come with me. He'll be out of harm's way, mostly, in the archer's line. How are you with a bow, Storm?" Arya said, interrupting.

The red-headed squire grinned. "I'm better than decent, Princess."

* * *

**Bran**

It was not yet mid-morning, Bran guessed, when the gates of the Wall opened, and knights and heavy horse filtered through, bearing the flags of the Vale. Rhaenys stood quickly from her seated position on the grassy hillock. 

"They're here."

"Yes, Princess," said Meera. "I think the Vale Knights will come through first, followed by the heavy horse of the Riverlands. Bran, love, could you confirm this?"

Bran nodded, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he lost sense of himself. His thinking changed, no longer fully human; he saw through different eyes, with different limbs. He was high above the ground, so high that he could fly over the Wall itself, and he did. He flapped his dark wings, carrying him over the great white barrier, over to the other side. Over there, he saw many sigils, a great line of men, marching through the gate of the castle. The men on horse, bearing the Tully sigil, were closest to going in; trailing after them were thousands and thousands of footmen.

Bran quickly exited the consciousness of the raven he'd warged into, slipping back into his body like a man dipping back into warm water. It was comfortable and felt like home. Somehow it was reassuring that he felt something when he slipped back into himself. He always feared coming back emotionless and cold, like he had when he had brought the Three-Eyed Raven into him.

"The Riverlands cavalry is next, followed by massed infantry," he muttered. "It will take them more than an hour to deploy on this side. It'll be a wait."

"It's that that I can't stand," Rhaenys growled. Eliarron fidgeted on her shoulder, and Lyagar let out a baleful croaking noise. "It's one thing to be in battle, but waiting on the edge of one is even worse. I wish it was over."

Meera gave her a sympathetic look, but Bran felt like someone had thrown cold water on his face. Rhaenys cared deeply for Jon, more than she could have been expected to given the very short amount of time they had known each other, and he was not convinced that it was purely in the way a sister cared for a brother. He was even more sure that even Rhaenys was not well aware of it. 

"You're worried about Jon," Bran offered cautiously.

"And Arya. Aren't you?" Rhaenys responded.

"Of course. They're my siblings. But I'm familiar enough with how they are to know that they won't be defeated easily." Bran stared ahead as the knights of the Vale continued to stream through, deploying in their battle order. "Jon has faced down worse than Harry the Heir and Sansa."

Rhaenys seemed to shiver a little. "With the number of times he's put himself at risk... there could have been a chance I never would have gotten to know him."

"It's good that you found one another. You're well-suited together" Bran said, his tone neutral, curious to see how she would react. Rhaenys looked at him for a second, a strange, unreadable expression in her eyes, before breaking contact and looking away.

Thankfully, Meera stepped in to make the meaning of his words clear - even though it was not what he had meant to say, and he could tell Rhaenys knew. "Jon trusts you. And you give good advice, Princess. I think the two of you could forge a new name for House Targaryen by working together."

 _That they could,_ Bran thought wryly. House Targaryen was in desperate need of heirs - as was House Stark. If he was honest with himself, the thought did not repulse him. If it was Sansa or Arya, it certainly would have - even though they were, in truth, only cousins in the first degree by blood. Rhaenys was his half-sister. But they were dragons, and such was the way of dragons. The two had never known each other. They had not been raised together the way Jon and Arya had.

Bran had not missed the lightning-quick embrace Rhaenys had given Jon before he left for the front line. But he chose to bury his suspicions for now, keeping them held within. It was no use to see if there was any truth to it. If there was anything he was almost completely sure of, it was that Rhaenys herself had not bothered to confront her feelings. He could not speak for Jon - Jon was still harder to read, aloof as he often could be, and so he did not wish to spur something on that was not meant to happen, or something that he had completely misread.

But the way Rhaenys' eyes were focused on the front line of Jon's army, where a man clad in all black directed his forces, told him that he had not misread.

"I've spent but a fortnight here with him, but I already believe in him more than I ever believed in Aegon," Rhaenys said quietly. "I love Egg, but he's arrogant. He's quick to anger, he doesn't think things through. Jon is the exact opposite."

"Jon has a way of doing that - making people believe in him," Bran said. "Some would say that it's because he's the prophesied hero, the prince of your father's dreams."

"Prophecies got Father killed," Rhaenys said. 

"Yes, but they also led to Jon," Bran pointed out. "You can mourn for your father, for your mother, and for everyone who died because Rhaegar fell in love with Aunt Lyanna. But it won't change anything now. Everything that happened led to Jon. Without him, who knows what would have happened with the White Walkers? Fate is a tricky thing." His eyes fell low, thinking of poor Hodor - _Willas_ , he reminded himself. His name was Willas. It was only because of Bran's grave mistake that he was called Hodor. What did it matter that the horrendous act of changing the past from the future had saved their lives? He had robbed a poor boy of his wits. Yes, the Old God played a part, but it was still Bran. He could only imagine how much devastation a power like that could wield if it was malignant. "Believe me, Rhaenys," he said quietly. "Sometimes it's better not to question the past at all."

"When Arya told me about you during our voyage, I thought one day I'd be able to see my father through you. But it doesn't work like that, does it? Even if you still had the power, I mean," Rhaenys clarified.

"No, it doesn't," Bran confirmed sadly. "At most I would simply have been able to tell you in words. What part of his life would you have wished to see?"

"Him and my mother together. What he thought, what he felt before he went to the Trident."

Bran spurred his hobby closer to her, the little horse clip-clopping on the crest of the hillock. "Jon isn't Rhaegar, and this isn't his Trident," he said, hoping to soothe Rhaenys. But the Princess did not answer, keeping her eyes focused on the battlefield ahead of them.

* * *

**Jon**

After Harry the Heir's knights came through the Wall, followed by the cavalry of the Riverlands, Sansa's foot troops marched through. They poured through the gate under the Wall, slowly but surely, taking up ranks behind their cavalry. Jon could see them from his position on the flank of his army, set further back, with much of his cavalry hidden in the forest behind. His own forces had come out of the Haunted Forest, filed into thin lines. The front few lines of men wielded large shields and long weirwood spears, while the men below were armed with axes and swords. Behind them were the archers, with bows of various make, though they had given as many weirwood longbows as they could to the archers who could wield them. Those were deadly weapons - one of them had claimed the life of Daemon Blackfyre at the Redgrass Field. Ahead of them, they had dug well-hidden trenches with embankments on Sansa's side, hiding the stakes they had planted below. The ground was turning more and more into muddy mush as the drizzle continued. It was good, then, that it was taking Sansa so long to deploy. It would buy him all the time he needed.

He had thought of creating ballistae or trebuchets on this side, to fling at Sansa's men as they entered the battlefield. But wholesale slaughter was not what he needed, nor did he mean for Sansa to stop the advance, to order a retreat, and to hole up in Winterfell - or worse, go to the lands of the lords who had come to Jon's side and take their families as hostages. It was better this way - trick her into thinking she had the upper hand, force her to give decisive battle, and then defeat her completely. With news of Daenerys and Aegon, he had become that much more hurried. There was little time to waste playing a game of cat and mouse up and down the North. He also did not want to separate her army in half by collapsing the Wall. Surely he would defeat one side, but she would easily survive and retreat, and he did not know how the Wall would fall. Perhaps it would be too difficult to give chase, and it might take a sennight or more to dig a path through the debris. And again, with time not on their side, he could ill afford to play a game of cat and mouse. It had to be one decisive act.

"Will they charge, your Grace?" Larence Hornwood asked him, stirring in his horse.

"They will, Larence," said Asher Forrester, behind him, gruffly. "That blonde-headed fuck talked about how his knights were going to tear the Free Folk to bits. It's an open field and we look like we're presenting for battle."

"Lord Asher is right," Jon said. "Though I can't say I know Hardyng's confidence first hand. They'll charge. It's an inviting target."

"You'd think they'd know we won't fight fair," Asher said. "The Southerners are idiots; Glover, on the other hand, might be a right bastard but he's not a fool."

"No, but he is a coward. The one thing you can rely on cowards for is to be brave when it's easy. Right now it looks damn easy," Jon said.

"Well said, Your Grace," Larence said with a chuckle. "Soon?"

"Soon. They've almost all deployed. Can any of you see Sansa? You have the Myrish Eye?"

Asher handed him the telescope, and Jon peered through it. He saw many men arrayed, but he looked for sigils, the telltale sign of the lords. He saw the Stark banner, and atop a horse, he found Sansa. She wore no helmet, and her bright red hair stood out against the dirty white of the Wall. He handed the Myrish Eye back to Forrester and spurred his horse to face them. "You have command of the cavalry both, Lord Forrester, Lord Hornwood. Divide up the command as you see fit. Be careful not to steer your horse too close to the pits when you swing around the side. Leave the lords and knights alive if they surrender. Especially leave two of Sansa's guards - Brienne of Tarth, and Podrick Payne. Both fought for us against the Dead. I'll give you the command. You know how we communicate with the skinchangers." Both men nodded, and even though they were First Men, Jon could see how it unnerved them.

"We would be honored if you led the charge with us, Your Grace," Asher said. "Seems like we'll look like the heroes of the day."

Jon smiled. "It looks like. Can you tell me, Asher, what it would look like if the king and general of the enemy army was not seen from across the battlefield?"

Asher nodded, seeming to understand. "Like a trap."

"Exactly. And I want to give them a big, inviting target. What better than me? I'll be at the front, in plain sight. When you get the command, you know what to do, Asher, Larence. And do keep yourselves alive. Gwyn will be pissed otherwise, and you've yet to even know a woman, Larence."

"I've known plenty!" Larence near-shouted, falling for the barb. Asher and Jon guffawed before he grasped both their arms and bade them good fortune. He rode his grey horse through the woods, and Ghost caught up with him, bounding through the trees by his side. Jon gave his wolf a smile. He felt better, safer, with him around. He did not ride long before arriving at the front, riding into plain sight. He hailed his commanders on foot. Manderly had taken command of the center, made up of the bulk of his northern troops. The Free Folk were on the far left, still ragtag, though they had been made more disciplined by the infusion of the Southerners, some of whom had experience as men at arms. Those men drilled the Free Folk, turning them into at least semi-disciplined warriors. They just needed to hold. On the far right, he had arranged his heaviest troops - the men of the Mountain Clans, four giants, and the biggest champions among the Free Folk. These were all shock troops, armed heavily, with hammers, axes, maces, and halberds, ready to crush the enemy flank. To their right was the hidden cavalry on the flanks. Behind all the foot were interspersed squadrons of archers and crossbowmen.

Eventually, Sansa's army was arrayed in front of him in full strength. Their lines seemed to stretch twice as long as his - and perhaps it was no exaggeration. Her force truly was nearly twice as large, once the Riverlanders were factored in. Jon knew it was time, and he signaled to Gromnir.

* * *

**Rhaenys**

To Rhaenys, it seemed that it was simply a raven's caw. Bran, on the other hand, seemed to know instinctively that he was being signaled by Jon.

"Is it time?" she asked.

"It is." He looked somberly at the horn in his hands. "For all the things I've done, this somehow seems the most momentous."

"Even more so than having the powers of an Old God?" Meera said.

"More so. I can attribute much of that to the Three-Eyed Raven. It wasn't really me." He looked at the horn balefully.

Rhaenys walked over to him and laid a hand on his horse. It was a beautiful hobby, dappled with grey-white horsehair. She stroked it while looking up at Bran. "I can do it, if you don't want to."

"You'd be alright with killing hundreds? Thousands?" Bran said, softly. 

Rhaenys met his eyes. "I would. My blood is down there, Bran. Your blood. Anything to protect them. I..." she trailed off. "I haven't had family in so long. I'm hardly giving up the ones I've found now."

"The things we do for love," Bran whispered to himself, so softly, that Rhaenys wasn't sure she had quite heard him right. He shook his head and pressed the horn to his lips, and blew.

The sound that came out of the horn was unlike anything Rhaenys had ever heard before. It wasn't the simple bellowing sound of a warhorn, short, braying, and deep. No, she felt this sound shake her bones. It wasn't particularly deep, but she could almost feel the waves of sound rolling off it. It seemed to echo, which was ludicrous, given that they were out in the open with no walls or buildings to surround them and nowhere for the sound to bounce off. Long after Bran had moved it away from his lips, Rhaenys could have sworn that it continued to ring. 

At first, nothing happened. The companions looked at each other in confusion and worry. Just as Rhaenys was about to open her mouth to ask if it worked, there was a deep cracking noise, and all of them snapped their attention to the Wall, where a large crack had appeared. It put a stop to almost all the noise in the battlefield. Then, the noise, repeated, and another crack appeared. Smaller cracks began to spread for the large ones, spidering up and down the surface of the wall, until it seemed like the entire structure was covered in giant cobwebs. 

Then, all hell broke loose. Sansa's army seemed to panic, the men closest to the wall beginning to push forward, causing the entire army to lurch forward in momentum. Some of the knights who gathered what was happening started a haphazard charge towards Jon's front line, seeing that the only way out was forward. Some of Sansa's army simply stood and stared up and behind them at the Wall, in awe of what was going on.

The Wall began to glow then, an unreal teal light shining through. "That's the magic," Bran said. "Whatever was left after the Night King broke it. It's leaving."

And when it left, the Wall crumbled and broke. The shatter started in the middle, destabilizing the whole structure, as the top began to collapse on the bottom. Great clouds of snow and dust were kicked up as Sansa's army broke into a full panic, beginning to rush in full terror towards Jon's army at the base of the forest. A loud roar picked up in the wind as the crashing of the snow and ice and the shattering of the Wall created such a clamor that it filled Rhaenys' ear, drowning out all noise except for the rapidly increasing beating of her heart.

The noise was so enveloping that neither she, nor the guards situated at their hillock, noticed a party of warriors bearing the sigil of Houses Glover and Cerwyn sneak up from their side. They were upon them like lightning before they had even noticed. A slight clanging of steel was her first warning, before a fur-and-armor clad warrior broke out from the trees at the base of the hill and charged up at her, swinging an axe wildly.

Rhaenys' eyes opened wide and she yanked Dark Sister out of its scabbard. He was almost upon her when a small knife sprouted from his throat. Rhaenys turned back and looked at Meera, who had thrown it, giving her a nod of appreciation. More and more men crawled out of the forest, attacking their guards.

"Brandon! You have to get word to Jon!" Rhaenys shouted.

* * *

**Jon**

"Give the order, my lord. The weirwood longbows aim for two hundred and fifty yards. Shortbows, crossbows, and others - a hundred and fifty. Pile the bodies and keep the rest from reinforcing the cavalry," Jon said, watching the charging knights of the Vale, as the Wall collapsed.

The sight lodged a stone in his throat. The place he had manned for so long, held against the Free Folk, where Ygritte had died in his arms, where Lord Commander Mormont had given him Longclaw, where he had died... gone. The Wall collapsed and Sansa's army shouted and screamed as they clambered over one another to get out of the way of the falling debris, as the middle of the Wall shattered and the top collapsed onto the base, crushing everything in its downfall. Large chunks broke off and fell towards Sansa's army, crushing some of the men who were too slow to get out of the way. The Vale and Riverlander knights, with their horses, got out faster, charging towards his lines.

"Loose!" went up the command, behind him. At first, he heard the twanging of longbows as they shot their projectiles, but then Ghost howled, and his mind was filled with an indescribable screaming. He gasped and held his head. It was Ghost's consciousness touched by something strong, something powerful. It could only be Bran, almost-warging into Ghost, but staying out, enough to give him notice that something was wrong. He could not see the crown of the hillock from here, as it was obscured by the forest, but he looked at Arya. 

"You know the plan?"

Arya nodded. "What's wrong?"

"Bran, Rhaenys, Meera. They're in trouble." He grabbed the reins of his horse, for balance, almost falling as the pain split his head, but Arya stopped him.

"Jon, you're needed here. I know you want to go, but you left men there." She glanced in the direction of the hillock. "I'll go. You have to stay, brother."

Jon looked at her, torn. He needed to go there. Bran was in trouble, and he couldn't defend himself. Meera had the babe inside her. And Rhaenys... A cold terror gripped his heart, a terror that he had not felt in a long time. It was almost like the feeling he had when he saw the Night King raise the dead at Hardhome, but the source was different. It was not dread of the coming storm, but the choking fear of loss. 

"Brother, I'll go. I promise I won't let anything happen to them." Arya's words shook him out of his thoughts and he nodded. 

"Go, take Ronald and ten men with you. Arya, ride like the wind."

Arya rode off and Ronald followed after her, sparing him a concerned glance. Jon looked down at Ghost, and a sudden idea struck him.

* * *

**Rhaenys**

There was no avoiding this one. Meera was busy defending Bran, and the guards that Jon had left were scattered, fighting or dying. She faced an opponent, circling around him as he circled around her. She could not see well into his helm, but he was not bearded, and his face was clean. He seemed a little small for the armor he had on, and he bore a sigil she recognized - the axe of Cerwyn. Yet he was not armored well enough to be a highborn or a knight - perhaps a squire or a young footman.

She gripped Dark Sister the way Jon had shown her, keeping her knees slightly bent and the point of the sword in her enemy's direction at all times.

"Yer a... a lady," the boy said, his voice coarse. _Not a highborn, then_ , she thought. A poor peasant boy, dragged from his home to fight in a war in some faraway land he'd never thought he'd see. His voice was filled with surprise, but not enough for him to spare her, Rhaenys knew. She could tell he was scared, but so was she.

Rhaenys didn't respond, but she kept circling. The boy gave in first, charging towards her, hacking wildly with his axe. Rhaenys dipped away, but lost her footing on the muddy ground, falling down onto the ground. The boy did not fare much better, his momentum carrying him far past her and he, too, lost his footing, dropping onto his knees. Rhaenys picked herself up first. She was only lightly armored, with some pieces of boiled leather over her breeches and top, and she was lighter. Mud clung to her clothes and her arms, and some surely was on her face and in her hair, but she hardly even noticed. Her eyes were trained on the boy. He clambered up, more slowly, his weight holding him down. He was trembling as he approached her again, and she shook herself, from fear, from the adrenaline. Her blood rushed in her ears, blocking out almost all noise, save for the thumping of her heart. Her eyes focused only on him, but she tried to keep her peripheral vision cleared. Something Jon had said to her came to her mind.

_Your eyes are your greatest weapon in a fight. You can use them to feint, to trick, to distract, but also to protect yourself. If you can look from the sides of your eyes, you can see your next move before your opponent does._

She tried it. She looked to the boy's left trying to draw his eyes there, and it worked. A faked step later and his guard was on the wrong side of his body, and when she swung Dark Sister, it found its mark - barely. It was a grazing cut, but it found a gap on the armor on his arm, cutting through the leather of his clothes and gashing him deep. She was surprised at how easily Dark Sister cut through armor, even if it was leather - it was little more than butter to a hot knife for the Valyrian blade. The boy howled and pushed her. Her mistake was that she had gotten too close, and he took advantage. The shove was strong, and she flew backward, slipping over the muddy ground and landing on her bottom. Dark Sister flew from her hand, and as the shock subsided, she crawled towards the sword. Her hands were muddy, but the grip was still good, and she picked it up and turned only to find the boy towering over her, swinging his axe down. With a cry, she rolled to her side, and his axe met only air. She swung Dark Sister wildly, hitting the boy with the flat of the sword on his ankles, causing him to cry out sharply with pain as he fell to the ground. He was too close for her to swing Dark Sister well, and she was having trouble getting to her feet, but she tried anyway. His hands shot out and grabbed her foot, yanking, pulling her back down into the mud with him.

He rolled on top of her then, pinning down her arms with his knees. He tried to stab her with a dagger, first, but she deflected his blow with a freed arm, and the point only scratched her brow, drawing blood. The dagger flew out of his hand and away. He pinned her again, and put both his gloved fists around her throat. Rhaenys struggled to let out a cry as her eyes watered and she began to choke for air. The pressure on her neck was indescribable, and she felt her consciousness slipping...

As a final, desperate gasp, her mind hardly thinking, her hands acting of their own instinctive volition, she yanked her right arm free and found the dagger Jon had given her and stabbed wildly. It slipped under the base of the boy's helm, into his throat, and his hands went limp around her as they flew towards his neck, trying to draw the dagger out. Rhaenys gasped wildly for air, letting it fill her lungs, her mind alternating between blank and full as adrenaline and oxygen commingled in her system. She clambered over the boy to make sure he was no longer a threat.

Their eyes met, and she yanked off his helm, struggling with it. She was no longer thinking. The helm had a slight point on the tip, and she instinctively aimed it at him, bringing it down, intending to bash his face. But the fear in his eyes stopped her, and she realized just how young the boy was. He could not have been more than sixteen, from the fuzz on his face, and he was crying as his hands gripped the dagger in his neck. He knew he was going to die, and he was scared, and Rhaenys broke inside, seeing the terror in his face as he passed slowly from this world, choking and crying. Tears fell unbidden from her eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to be away from here, or to be dead - anything but looking down at this young boy she had killed. He gurgled as he suffocated on his blood, and soon he passed, as his breathing passages filled with his lifeblood and strangled him. His face was still contorted into fear, and tears ceased to roll down his face.

Rhaenys did not know how long she was there, kneeling like that, but eventually, she heard footsteps thundering towards her. She spun around, Dark Sister in hand, but before the man could attack her, a large white blur leaped from nowhere, pouncing on the man and dropping him to the ground. The man screamed for a second before the great white beast bit into his neck and ripped out his jugular. Rhaenys scurried backward on her elbows, putting distance between her and the animal before it turned around to look at her with intelligent eyes. It was Ghost; she recognized him from the missing ear. But it was more than that. Staring into the eyes of the wolf, she felt like she was looking at someone else.

"Jon?" she whispered.

Ghost pawed his way towards her and licked her face gently, rubbing his face against her neck lovingly. When she petted him and scratched behind his ears, looking down at him, the presence was gone, and though Ghost still looked at her with his usual intelligence, she could tell Jon was no longer there.

But she held onto Ghost all the same, as if he was Jon, and he was the only thing keeping her afloat in the midst of a terrible storm at sea.

* * *

**Arya**

Arya shoved her dagger into the man's armpit. As he howled, she finished him off with Needle, putting an end to his cries. With a heavy boot, she kicked his corpse down back into the mud, and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

The carnage was subsiding on the hill, as Ronald hit another Cerwyn man through the head with a heavy tipped arrow, killing him instantly. The red-headed boy had not lied when he said he was 'better than decent' as an archer - he looked like Brynden Rivers born again. Meera was safe, leaning against Bran's horse, panting, holding onto her husband's leg as he gazed around, worry in his eyes. Arya realized he was looking for Rhaenys.

The few remaining guards, as well as the men she had brought, rounded up the remaining survivors, as she set out to look for Rhaenys. She found her easily, near the crest of the hill, holding onto Ghost like a sailor at sea with a liferaft. Arya stepped closer to her, choosing not to be silent so as not to alarm her, but Rhaenys didn't look away, her face buried into Ghost's fur. Arya glanced around. There was a dead soldier, only a boy, with Jon's dagger in his throat. A few yards away was another man, more freshly dead, his foot still twitching, a veritable fountain of blood pouring from his throat as he bled away from a ripped jugular. 

"Rhae," she whispered softly, kneeling next to her friend. The woman was filthy, covered in mud, her face and hair matted with it, but her beautiful indigo eyes met Arya's as she turned her face ever so slightly from Ghost's dirtied fur. She had left a red stain there where blood from her wound dripped onto Ghost.

"I killed him," she said, falteringly. "Just a boy."

"You had to, Rhae," Arya said soothingly. She had seen this shock before, in young soldiers. "It was your life or his."

"Just a boy," Rhaenys repeated. Arya felt a stab of hurt in her heart for her friend. She helped Rhaenys to her feet, and Ghost did as well, staying close to her legs, helping her keep balance. Behind them, Arya saw the Wall completely destroyed, still falling apart in some places. Most of the debris would melt eventually, she realized, since it was naught but ice and snow, but for now it left a short jagged barrier between the North and the realm beyond the Wall. It would need a new name, with no Wall left.

The cries and clamor of battle rang out nearby - the screams of men killing and dying. She knew that Jon's front line had met Sansa's cavalry. From the whinnying of dying horses, she could tell the stakes had done most of their work, but she did not stop to stare. Arya helped Rhaenys to Meera, who embraced her in a large hug and thanked her profusely for coming. Arya nodded and loosed herself from the embrace, and Meera took it upon herself to try and comfort Rhaenys, who still had a faraway look in her eyes.

Ronald trotted over to her. "Princess, we've captured Lord Glover. He led the party, it would seem."

Arya nodded, her face darkening. As much as she wanted to tear open Glover's throat, Jon would deal with him later. His crime was against the entire House. Everyone needed to see his demise.

* * *

**Jon**

He severed his connection with Ghost just as the first wave of horse died as they fell into the hidden trenches - knights and mounts alike, skewered on weirwood stakes. Those who died immediately were lucky. The ones who suffered for a long time created a chorus of pain and death that haunted the front lines as battle waged on. Some of the knights found the gaps between the trenches, launching into the spearwall of the front line, and died there too. Arrows and bolts continued to hail from Jon's archers, raining death on the haphazardly advancing army of Sansa. Some of her soldiers in the back had been crushed under the fallen Wall, but many had managed to get out of the way. Now, they trampled over one another through the mud as they made their way towards the front. Their was no order or rank to their advance. They were completely disorganized, and any hope of breaking Jon's line with a mass cavalry charge was dead.

The smarter knights of Sansa's army began to dismount, instead of charging into the front lines haphazardly. Jon saw one in shining armor reform his front line. Harry the Heir, he assumed, from the sigil on the armor. The knights gathered into a tighter formation, and the few who made it past the hailing projectile fire of Jon's army also dismounted, joining the mass formation. They charged with a shout, but Jon's spearwall held tight.

He gave the order to Gromnir to send to the other wargs. The left and right flanks would now advance, while the spearwall in the middle held their ground. They would envelop Sansa's army, and the cavalry would sweep in the flank and the rear to end the battle. His men held firm against the knights, who battered at the shields. Some fell as the spears found their way into gaps in the armor, but both sides were well armored and well shielded, and the battle quickly became a shoving match.

In the second and third line, Jon rallied the men armed with axes and swords and ordered the spearwall to advance. The men in the rear pushed the phalanx forward, and the knights began to give way. There weren't as many of them, and Sansa's army was slow to get to the front, as the footmen trudged through muddy ground that had been made even worse by the trampling of horses, the bodies of fallen dead men, and the hail of arrows still raining down on them from the longbows. Sansa's archers gave back disorganized fire, but their arrows harmed their men as much as Jon's own. The knights in front broke down and the swordsmen and axemen streamed through the phalanx line, cutting into the enemy. Jon joined them with a roar, brandishing Longclaw with a black shield. The valyrian steel sword made it far too easy. It could, with a few hits, cut through armor that no sword would be able to penetrate, and mail was little more protective than butter. He slashed knees and armpits, necks and groins, anything that wasn't fully covered with plate. The Valemen were mowed down, and the spearmen, who were now in the rear, either took the fallen prisoner, or finished off the ones who were too near death to live.

In the chaos, Jon saw Harrold Hardyng fighting. Somehow, despite the mud of the battle, his armor was still pristine. Jon cut his way towards him, and when the Vale Lord saw him, Harrold must have recognized him immediately from the dragon armor, as he barked his challenge.

"Face me, Snow!"

Even with the battle raging around them, Jon's men and the Valemen gave the two lords a bit of berth, a fighting space untouched. Jon circled around his opponent, realizing that the man was, though an excellent fighter on paper, little more than a tourney knight. This was likely his first battle.

Jon didn't have to try hard, in the end. His circling forced Hardyng to move onto a muddier patch of ground, and his silver spurs and boots were tarnished from the dirt. Jon readied himself, and Hardyng made the first move. He charged through the mud, but as Jon readied to meet him, the man slipped and lunged forward, his momentum carrying his body right into Jon and his advancing Longclaw. Whether by fate or pure misfortune, the blade caught him in the gap between his helmet and gorget, and tore straight through his throat and out the back of his neck, killing him immediately.

Jon was never more grateful for his sensible Northern boots. 

Jon's men bellowed belligerently as they saw the enemy lord die, and the knights began to panic. They turned to flee, but their own men were coming up from the rear, slowly, filtering through the spiked trenches and to bolster their front line. Confusion set in among Sansa's men, and the battle turned confusing and bloody, as men hacked and slashed away at each other.

A whistling noise filled Jon's ear, and his shield arm began to ache splendidly. An arrow had struck his arm, and he was thankful for Gendry's armor, because with any other it would have torn through and into his flesh. He would bruise, but little worse. Lord Manderly found him in battle, covered in mud and blood. The man was large, yes, but he could hold his own in battle. His moniker, 'too fat to sit a horse' seemed unearned, apparently.

"King Aemon, you should get back. A stray arrow is all it takes," he shouted into Jon's ear, trying to be heard over the din of battle.

"No," Jon said. "They'll break any minute. Where is the cavalry?"

As he spoke, horses bearing the white dragon smashed into the side of Sansa's army, much further away, as Jon's flanks collapsed on the enemy army. The battle turned into a complete mess of a rout, as Sansa's men began to turn and run - only, there was nowhere to run. Between the ruins of the Wall, the pincer movement of Jon's army, and the muddy ground, there was nothing to be done. They began to throw down their arms and surrender. The archers in Jon's army moved up to the front, disarming them and taking them prisoner, as the front continued to hack through the lines and the few that hadn't yet surrendered. 

Jon caught sight, in the middle, of Sansa. She had a terrified look on her face, her red hair billowing in the wind, as she sat atop her horse. Jon fought his way through the middle, hoping to get through to her. But before he could, he watched in horror as a stray arrow flew from behind her - from one of her own archers - and into her horse. There was a loud scream, audible in that it was of higher pitch and clearly a woman's, as the horse fell and Sansa fell out of his sight, as her men continued to trample in all directions around her.

"NO!" Jon screamed, hacking his way through the enemy, forcing his way to his sister. Her horse had fallen a ways away, and even with his men surging all around him, it still took him some time to advance through the men. Many surrendered, but Jon was a flurry and a whirlwind, a black scythe reaping the chaff around him. He found Sansa's horse, a white one, dead on the ground, and Sansa pinned underneath. Jon's men formed a circle around them, and Jon ran to her side, tearing off his helm. Sansa was coughing up blood, crushed under her horse, her blue eyes turning glassy quickly.

"Sansa!" Jon shouted, trying to push the horse off her. Some of his men helped, but Sansa screamed as they tried to move it. She was crushed, under its weight, but they managed to get it off her eventually.

"J-Jon..." she choked, her voice filled with misery and pain, and tears streaking from her eyes. "J-Jon, I-I'm-..."

"Hush now, Sansa," Jon said, his voice shaking. "Hush, not another word. Save your strength." He looked around him wildly. "Stretcher! Somebody fetch a fucking maester and a stretcher!"

* * *

**Bran**

It was not quiet in the army camp, as Bran rode through on his horse. They came down from the hill with the prisoners as soon as horns had signalled the surrender of Sansa's army. Meera rode sideways on the rear of his horse, while Rhaenys and Arya rode astride on Arya's. The sounds of dying men filled the camp as maesters, orderlies, and medics ran from tent to tent, trying to salve the wounds of those they could save while sawing off the limbs of those who would join Bran in the ranks of the cripples. Some they let die, for there was nothing they could do but ease their pain, and in some cases not even that. There was not enough milk of the poppy to go around.

Thankfully, as far as battles went, it seemed that their casualties were not high. He could not place a number on it, nor did he care to, due to the creeping fear that had taken root in his heart. He'd noticed it almost the same time Arya did, and Ghost was receptive to it, too - in fact, more receptive than anyone else. Even Rhaenys was struck by the fear that something might have happened to Jon for Ghost to react this way, but Bran tried to convince himself that Ghost's reaction would have been far worse had Jon died. 

There was a commotion in the trees as a group of men burst forth, carrying a stretcher to the back. Arya dismounted, moving towards them. Bran caught a flash of red hair in it, and his heart froze. Jon ran astride them, his black armor covered in mud and blood, his sword in its scabbard, his shield on his back, and his helm in his hands. He had tears streaking down his face. Arya saw the stretcher and went pale, stopping Jon, but Jon pushed her aside almost as if he did not know her.

"Jon!" Arya shouted.

"Arya, we have to go," Bran said. He moved his horse to trot behind the men, following Jon. They took the stretcher into a tent, and Jon stood outside, speaking breathlessly with the maester, who nodded. Sam came from inside the tent and shared some words with Jon, whose face turned grimmer by the instant.

As he neared, he could finally make out what they were saying.

"-I want to see-"

"Jon, you can't," Sam said, trying to reason with him. "She needs surgery if she's to survive. Her wounds are all internal, caused by the falling horse. We have to operate on her." The portly man gulped. "I... I cannot say that it looks good. But I'll try. I'll do my best, Jon, I promise. She's your sister."

Arya caught up to Jon and pushed past Sam. "I want to see her," she shouted. 

"Arya, no!" Jon tried to hold her back, but for the first time since their family had been broken apart by Robert and the Lannisters, Bran saw Arya's mask break, and she cried. "I want to see Sansa!"

Rhaenys, who had otherwise seemed dazed, dismounted too now, rushing to her friend and enveloping her in a hug. "Arya, Arya," she whispered, soothingly, into her ear. "Arya, it'll be alright."

But Bran had seen enough of Sansa inside the stretcher to know that hope in this situation, was a dangerous thing. As Arya continued to struggle against Rhaenys, Meera made her way to her, Jon stalked off, thundering away in a mixture of rage and grief, and Rhaenys gave Arya a kiss on the cheek as she followed after him. And for the first time since he had been freed of the curse of the Three-Eyed Raven, Bran found himself wishing he felt nothing at all, even though they had won the battle.

* * *

**Rhaenys**

She found Jon under a weirwood tree, in the waning twilight as the day faded away into night. The face carved in the tree looked mournful, its eyes bleeding red sap. The thing chilled her to her core in a way neither the Seven nor the Lord of Light ever did. The drizzle that had fallen through the battle was gone now, and the ground had begun to soak up water. Jon was sitting there, Longclaw in front of the tree. She sat next to him, unbuckling Dark Sister and placing it by the weirwood. Her hands trembled as she reached for the dagger that had taken the young man's life and also laid it down. 

They sat in silence for a while. She did not know what to say to him, and he seemed too lost in his own thoughts to say anything to her. But Jon surprised her by breaking his silence first.

"You killed someone today. Your first?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Rhaenys simply nodded, and tears began to fall again, unbidden, for the boy who had tried to kill her. Her life was at stake, but she could not help it. No matter what others would say, he was just a child. "He- He was just a boy, Jon." Her sobs came harder. "He was trying to kill me and I was trying to kill him, but every time I looked into his eyes, I saw some mother's son, some father's son, some boy with a plow and a mule and a wife and children. I was ready to bring the Wall down when Brandon hesitated. It would have killed hundreds. And now I think back to it and quake, because of how hard it was just to kill one."

"It's different when you look into their eyes, Rhae. You wonder, sometimes," Jon said. "You wonder where the boy came from, who his family was. You wonder if he had really wanted to be here, so far from home, or if he wouldn't rather have stayed there, living out his days with his family." Jon stared at the tree, as if asking it and the god who resided within.

"Do you keep count?" Rhaenys asked, hiccuping. "Do you know how many?"

"More than I deserve any forgiveness for," Jon said, shaking his head. "I hate it, Rhae. I hate it more than anything else I'm good at."

"Was that you? In Ghost?" she asked.

"Aye. I couldn't come to you in person. I sent Arya... but I needed to make sure you were alright."

"You came back," Rhaenys said, her tears spilling over once again. She buried her face in his shoulder and felt his arms wrap around her. They were no longer side to side, but in each others' arms, holding onto one another in their sorrow. 

"Well I did bloody promise," Jon huffed quietly into her ear. "Couldn't disregard my lady's favor so easily."

Despite herself, she laughed, a strange choked noise that came out alongside her tears. "You're not hurt?"

"Bruises and bumps," he said. "Nothing that won't heal in a few nights. You?"

She pulled back and bared her throat at him, which had turned purple and bruised. Jon also caught sight of the cut over her brow, his hands trailing gently along its length. The touch of his skin made goosebumps rise all along her arms, and she repressed a shiver. "Oof. That'll leave a scar." He pointed at his own brow. "Now we'll match."

Rhaenys remembered Sansa Stark's mangled body on the stretcher. "Jon, your sister. Will she be alright?"

Jon shook his head, turning his attention back to the tree. "I can't say. Her horse was shot out from underneath her. Her legs, her midsection... I don't know. Sam said it wasn't good."

A horrible thought struck Rhaenys - if Sansa Stark died, as hard as it would be on the Stark Siblings, it might be the best solution. She presented a number of problems that Jon had asked her counsel on, and they had not decided on any one particular solution. Her passing would solve all that...

But to see the abject gloom in Jon's face erased that thought from her mind, even as she begrudged the red-headed Queen in the North her threats against the dragons. She wondered how the man, despite being slighted and betrayed, found it in him to love Sansa Stark anyway. Yes, there was something to be said about family - Rhaenys knew that better than most - but Jon was something else. Yesterday, when they had fought, she would have called it naive, and foolish, and perhaps it was. But to take away Jon's love of family would be to change him completely, to unmake Jon Snow or Aemon Targaryen or whoever he was into someone not any of those things. And given how many Targaryens had turned out, she was not so sure that was a good thing.

She found that Jon, flaws and all, was better the way he was than any way she could ever hope to mold him, and she hoped he stayed that way.

"I'm sorry. Whatever else she did, she's your sister."

Jon was quiet for a moment. "I understand now why Tyrion did it."

Rhaenys frowned. "Did what?"

"When we were to lay siege to King's Landing, Tyrion betrayed Daenerys. He snuck Ser Jaime Lannister in to smuggle Cersei out." Jon sighed. "As terrible as she was, and as good a man as Tyrion is... sometimes you can't help but be drawn to blood. Sansa isn't Cersei - at least she hadn't turned into Cersei just yet - but when I saw her, broken under that horse..." Jon bowed his head. "She's going to die, Rhae. I've seen it a hundred times. Ninety-nine times it ends in death."

Rhaenys cupped his face in her hands and tucked one of his curls behind his ear. "Then if she dies, you'll mourn her. I will mourn alongside you."

He scoffed. "Is it strange that I waged war on her, fought against every one of her foolish decisions, hated her for what she let happen to those people on Bear Island... but when I saw her like that, I wanted to cry?" He laughed tersely. "I feel guilty that I'm sad at all and I feel guilty that I'm not sad enough. What would Father say?"

"Ned Stark would say that it wasn't your fault, Jon. You tried everything you could. You held your pack together. You cannot force the lone wolf to come back. Sansa wouldn't listen. You can mourn, Jon, you can be filled with sorrow. If you want to cry, cry here, on my shoulder," she said fiercely. "Cry your heart out and I will be your support. But you will not blame yourself for something you did your very best to prevent."

"I failed," Jon said. Rhaenys felt the urge to shake his utter stubbornness out of him, to show him that he needn't bear the weight of everything on his shoulders.

"You have a lot more failures ahead of you. But if you succeed in what's most important, it'll all have been worth it." She caressed his rough cheek. "I'll fail with you, if it makes it better."

A great big furry beast wandered in between them, laying at their feet. Rhaenys laughed softly to see Ghost, as large as a horse, lay down by them like he was just a pup. He looked at Jon with great, near-human sadness in his big red eyes. "I think Ghost agrees with me," Rhaenys said.

Jon looked at her, deadpan. "Ghost is a traitor who will agree with anyone who gives him belly rubs and attention." The direwolf let out a whining noise, as if in protest. Jon sighed, and said, "there's a battle to clean up after. Who knows how many lords survived. I need to find out the casualties, who will bend the knee, what arrangements we have to make... and the Wall, gods, the way it fell. Are there even any paths to use, or will we have to dig one out..."

"Jon," she said. "Stop. It can wait. Stay here, with me. You need to breathe, to clear your mind, before you go be a king again." What she didn't say was that she wanted him to stay for purely selfish reasons, because she felt safe in his arms, because his embrace was too sweet to leave, and because she did not want to share him with the world just yet. Filthy and dirt-matted and muddy as they both were, she would rather stay. She hoped he agreed.

"Alright," he said, closing his eyes, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. "We'll stay, for a bit." He stood and began to unstrap his armor, groaning from soreness as he undid the latches and straps. Rhaenys helped him, and soon he was unburdened of all the trappings of a dragon. Rhaenys' heart was gladdened when she saw the orange strip still on his wrist, somehow nearly immaculate. He slumped against Ghost's side, laying on the ground, and Rhaenys joined him, tucking her head into the nook between his shoulders and neck, trying and failing to repress a host of un-sisterly emotions waging a second battle inside her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out the aftermath, next time, on Dragon Ball Z....
> 
> Might not update for a weekish, just a head's up. Like I said, will be very busy. 
> 
> I know some of you really really hate Sansa. She irritates the hell out of me, especially the way her betrayal of Jon was just kind of... ignored... in the show. But let's not kid ourselves. Unless Sansa killed one of them, Ned Stark's brood would very much mourn her. Sansa, as bad as she can get, is very much a tragic figure.


	21. Return to Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Winterfell.

**Jon - VII**

Jon rode his horse at the head of the column, winding down the Kingsroad through the misty moors as their army marched south from the crashed ruins of Castle Black. When he first saw it rise up from the rolling hills, commanding the wide sloping plains of the center of the North, it caught his breath, as it always did.

Winterfell stood there, as stark and grey as the family that called it home. Aye, Dragonsreach was his new home, and Castle Black had been home too, but there was always something else about returning to this place, as much as he had once felt both drawn to and repulsed from it. Something about it called to him, and he suspected that the call came from the crypts beneath Winterfell. This was his mother's home, from whence her bones came and unto which they returned. Yet there had also been something about him that felt out of place in here. Once he thought it to be the bastardy, but now he realized it was the dragon's blood.

He slowed his horse to a slow walk, Rhaenys pulling up beside him. She gasped when her eyes fell upon Winterfell and Jon observed her out of the corner of his eye. He had grown to immensely enjoy her fascination with the wonders of the world and her endless love for history and knowledge. "That's it, isn't it?" she said, staring ahead at it. "Winterfell."

"Aye." He paused. "Home, I suppose."

"You suppose?" Rhaenys said, eyebrow raised.

"Too much has happened here for me to think of Winterfell as only one thing. It's better to remember the good memories." He would rather think of Robb and his uncles, of Ser Rodrik and training in the yard, of teaching Arya how to shoot when Lady Catelyn wasn't looking.

"Lots of those?" Rhaenys asked.

"I wasn't sad," Jon replied. "Lady Catelyn aside, I had my siblings and I had Father. I had a roof over my head and people who loved me." _And lied to me._

A faraway look entered her eyes, and Jon felt that she was somewhere else for a moment. "Good. No one should have to grow up on the run."

Jon gave orders for the army to set up camp outside Wintertown. The village was overgrown now, a town both in name and size now, flush from the refugees that had come north. While many had gone all the way to Dragonsreach, some had just settled down here. As the army camped in the plain, he and Rhaenys rode through the town as the lords of their party escorted their prisoners and wounded into the castle. Bran, Meera, and Tyrion went ahead into the castle, to prepare it for the arrival of the king, as for the feast they had agreed to throw in a sennight's time. Jon was not in the mood for it, but Rhaenys and Tyrion had prevailed upon him that it was better to keep morale up, considering they were now to prepare for a long campaign in the South.

"This is a pretty little village," Rhaenys said, as they trotted through the main dirt road that bisected the town. If she meant it sarcastically, Jon did not feel it. It was a muddy place. Wintertown had always been a temporary refuge for smallfolk; the Starks had never truly seen fit to give it the amenities of a town, though Father had tried his best.

"It seems... larger than it should." Her eyes scanned the number of tents that were pitched up alongside the hovels and homes of the people who had lived here longer. "Refugees?"

"Aye. Before the next winter comes, they'll need better housing, especially since even more people come here from their small villages in the remote reaches of the plains. I'll have the castellan see to it that we start building homes and stockpiling more food. They'll need it." Jon sighed. "Sansa's not incompetent, not like this. Sansa must have put her resources into the war, and... and I burned most of those down before the battle." A wave of guilt crept over him. If they were not able to recoup their supplies, there would be a dark winter, whenever it came.

Rhaenys placed a hand on his shoulder gently. "Jon, you can't think like that. You have to secure supplies for these people, but you weren't the one who took them away to fund a war. Come, show me around. I want to see the place where you grew up." She gave him a pleading look with her eyes, one that Jon found he had less and less resolve to resist, and he sighed and nodded. They dismounted and gave the horses to Jon's guard, and Rhaenys took his arm as she walked around Wintertown with him. Oddly, she seemed not to quirk her nose at the smell, though Jon had to admit that it wasn't bad, as far as towns went. The North felt fresher, far fresher than King's Landing, which had stunk to him even before Daenerys had reduced it to smoldering rubble.

When they got to the market, a number of merchants tried to sell them wares and baubles and trinkets. Quite a few recognized him as that bastard boy who had run chores between the town and the castle, before he became their king, and to those he waved off any need for kowtowing. None of the merchants' goods were of any particularly fine make - they did not have such things here, though perhaps they could be found in White Harbor - but Rhaenys ogled them all as if they were the finest gold and silver, listening attentively to the sales pitch of the merchants hawking the item. She was drawn into playing with two girls who seemed blissfully unaware of her identity and were in the middle of some made-up children's game in the street. Jon watched her, an uncontrollable smile spreading across her face as she laughed and danced with the girls. More children joined in, and the parents began to watch with interest, wondering what a lady - and not a northern one at that - was doing among the smallfolk like this.

Someone brushed past him and Jon turned his head. It was an older man, wizened to whiteness in his beard and what remained of his hair, with strong lines worn by time etched onto his face. He clutched something in his hands.

"Tis a fine Lady you have there, yer Grace, even if she's from the South," he said, his northern accent thicker than was usual for people native to Wintertown. "Methinks she'd be mighty fond of these." He showed him - wrapped in cloth, there were small, stemmed roses. They had been de-thorned with care, but unlike the red roses that grew everywhere else, these were the winter roses that had bloomed in the godswood of Winterfell, the roses of his mother.

"Where did you find these?" Jon asked, curiously - forgetting to correct him, to tell him that Rhaenys was not his lady.

"Grows every place after the big battle, with them White Walkers," said the old man. "All around the plains. Used to be the flowers of the she-wolf, old Lord Stark's daughter."

Jon looked at the grizzled old man now, taking in his age. He was not wizened, not ancient, but weathered, rather, the way the men of the North were, after having seen winters and summer snows too many. "Do you remember her? Lady Lyanna Stark?"

"O'course. Like your lady, she used to come down and play with the children. Wild thing, that one, but she had a good heart. Loved us little folk." The old man glanced around. "I haven't come back here to the winter town in many years. Not since Lord Stark went south during the Rebellion to fight for that old Stag king. But now I think I'll spend the rest of my days here. Better to die surrounded by memories of better days."

"I hope you aren't done living just yet," Jon said. "Thank you, good man." He pressed coin into the man's hand in exchange for a few flowers - far more than the flowers were worth, in truth, but the old man had gifted him something precious. Rhaenys had torn herself away from the children, finally, who continued their game, laughing and singing and dancing, while Rhaenys emerged, rosy-cheeked and smiling.

"Not very princess-like of you," Jon said, tongue-in-cheek.

Rhaenys laughed and took his arm. "I never got the chance to do anything like this before. My life has been one gilded cage after another. I barely stepped foot outside the great temple in Volantis, and after that, the Black Spire in Asshai. To me, it's all beautiful. And the children, Jon, oh... can we stay here, a while longer?"

"Of course," Jon said. Something possessed him then, something not known to him, but he took the flower and affixed it into her hair, just over her ear. She looked at him strangely, running her hands to the foreign object that was now nestled in her hair, but Jon chided her. "Don't touch it, you'll knock it out."

"I don't know what it is, silly." 

"It's-"

A young girl bounded over to them and tugged on Rhaenys' breeches, getting both of their attention. She looked up with wide eyes, pointing innocently at the winter rose. "Can I have one too?" she asked. 

"It's called a winter rose," Jon said gently, crouching a little to look the girl in the eye. "All fair lasses of the North can wear them. Would you like one too?"

The girl nodded vigorously. Jon took the spare rose and wove it into the girl's hair, too, before stepping back to admire his handiwork. "You look like a true princess of the North. What's your name?"

"Caitrin," she said shyly. Jon smiled at her.

"That's a good name for a princess." He looked up at Rhaenys. "What do you think?"

Rhaenys had an odd look in her eyes, though she smiled at both of them nonetheless. "I think it's wonderful." She knelt by Caitrin and whispered something into her ear. The young girl beamed and hugged her before running off. Jon chuckled as he stood.

"What did you say to her?" Jon asked.

"Nothing for boys to hear," Rhaenys said. Her fingers traveled up to her hair, tracing around the rose. "Thank you, Jon. It's a beautiful flower." She seemed to bite her lip for a second, debating whether to say something or not. "I can imagine how beautiful your mother would have looked in a crown of these."

Jon froze. He had not thought of that at all, and now he was kicking himself. But Rhaenys' expression was not sad, or angry, or insulted. It was something strange, something he could not entirely place. She simply gave him a small lopsided smile and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Yet a chaste kiss should not have burned into his skin the way this one did.

* * *

"So, what are you going to call your new realm?" Tyrion asked, smirking gently. "The North and Beyond the Wall is a bit of a mouthful, in addition to your many titles."

Jon scoffed. "You could take a page out of Ser Davos' book." Tyrion laughed heartily at that and Jon smiled, both men remembering that fateful day when Jon had arrived at Dragonstone to make a pact with the Dragon Queen. Davos introduced him as "this is Jon Snow - he's King in the North." Little had they known what would come of that meeting.

They sat around a large table in the former council room. Candles flickered on the table as night began to creep in around Winterfell. Jon loved how warm the castle felt even though there wasn't much of a chill outside. A steady fire roared in the fireplace, casting the room in a dancing amber glow. Rhaenys laughed at Tyrion's joke, but she was able to pass it off more like a scoff. Jon raised an eyebrow at her. Ever since their first meeting, Jon had become increasingly suspicious that while Rhaenys actually liked Tyrion as a person, she seemed unable to get past her hatred of the Lannister family - something that Jon could not blame her for, not after her mother's fate. It seemed that Tyrion understood this and acted accordingly.

"Well, I am styling myself as the rightful 'Lord of the Eight Kingdoms' - it has to be Eight now, right?"

"It doesn't have to be," Tyrion said. "The Riverlands are a realm in all but name, but they don't count towards the total. Perhaps beyond the Wall could function similarly?"

"I hardly think 'beyond the Wall' works," Bran, who reclined in his wheeled chair, said. "Not after there's no Wall."

"And for that, we tip our caps to you," Tyrion said, raising a wine cup as a toast. "Hail Brandon the Breaker. If only your ancestor the Builder could see what you've wrought."

Bran smiled mischievously. "I think he'd be flattered."

"Enough japing, my lords," Rhaenys said, rolling her eyes. "Northerners and Free Folk share common ancestry - First Man ancestry. You mostly have the same gods. There's no reason why the two realms can't be united. Dragonsreach can function as the summer residence of the King. Winterfell can be the winter capital."

Jon knew, as soon as she said it that it was the right move. "We can resurrect the old title. King in the North, King of Winter. It sounds perfect," Bran said. "After all, remember our house words." Tyrion made a noise of assent, as well.

"It's a good idea. A united North. The resources of both realms combined would make for a good trading position. Remember the mines we were finding outside Dragonsreach? The Frostfangs are an untouched bounty of riches. We'll be able to buy the smallfolks' weight in food from the Reach and from Essos."

"Assuming the Essosi will do business with us," Jon said. "What's the latest on Daenerys' movements?"

Bran cleared his throat. "It would seem that she has yet to show herself or Drogon, and therefore the world is still unaware of Daenerys Targaryen's existence at large. However, I spoke with Lord Manderly, as his family has the most contacts across the sea. Rumors from the East speak of a large horde sweeping across the continent, sacking and taking tribute from cities. Among them are mercenaries from Daenerys' old regime in Slaver's Bay. They have R'hllorite zealots, shadowbinders from Asshai, Dothraki, Unsullied, and all kinds of sellswords among their ranks."

"We have to rectify that. I want letters sent to all the kingdoms and all their monarchs. Daenerys Targaryen is alive and is coming for Westeros with vengeance in mind-"

"I wonder if that's the wisest course," Tyrion cut in. "Apologies, your Grace, but think of it this way. Out of all the current rulers in Westeros, Daenerys wants you, and by extension me, dead most of all. I can't imagine she has any particular grudge against the remainder of House Lannister - in fact, the other branches would likely thank her for removing Tywin's line from the Rock. She has no problem with either of the Reachman houses, and Dorne will likely be the base of her power. She also has no real grudge against the Eyrie and she may expect the Stormlands to come to her cause, considering Gendry was given his name by her."

"I doubt Gendry will, Tyrion. It's not like him," Jon said.

"Be that as it may, Gendry is one man. Even with Ser Davos counseling him, he still has many banners who are too war-ravaged to desire to put up much of a resistance against Daenerys. If you tell them all that Daenerys is here with Aegon, why would they side with you if there's no immediate danger to their lives? They can bend the knee, become Wardens and Lords again, but you can't. And make no mistake - right now, we have no allies, even if we think we can sway the Eyrie and the Stormlands."

"Lord Tyrion is correct," Rhaenys said, as if she had swallowed something bitter. "If we give away the game now, I fear most unaligned houses will side with Aegon. We have to build a coalition first, or have others recognize your claim."

"The Eyrie is our first and best option. I know Lord Royce, and I respect him. And I believe he greatly respects you, Your Grace. Perhaps we can inform only him, gauge his reaction, and see if Robin Arryn will bend the knee."

"I can go and deal with my cousin, Jon," Bran said, but Jon shook his head. 

"No, your child will be here within two moons' turn, and getting you to the Eyrie and back will take a while. That's the future of our house. You need to be here for it." Jon leaned back in his large chair - it had looked giant even when Ned Stark had sat in it, and now still it looked too big for him. "We can send Arya."

"Perhaps the Princess Rhaenys ought to go as well," Tyrion said. "As a representative of House Targaryen. She ought to take her dragon with her as well. Eliarron's presence might be enough to make sure Lord Royce believes us. After all, you have a campaign against the Ironborn to plan."

"Aye. Well, that's the first of our discussions sorted out," Jon said, rubbing his temples as he laid his elbows on the table. "Tomorrow we have a number of things to finish. What is on the agenda, Tyrion?"

"First is your coronation. After that, you pass justice on the imprisoned, who either recognize your authority as King, or face Longclaw. We ought to discuss the dispensation of all the prisoners, as it is," Tyrion added. "As we discussed on the Kingsroad, there aren't any surviving people of note from the Vale contingent that Harrold Hardyng brought with him, and we can ransom the surviving knights. The Riverlands and the Northern Lords are a different story."

There had been some notables among the deceased there. Lord Cerwyn, obviously, had fallen to Arya during the night raid. Lord Glover had been captured and was awaiting Longclaw's kiss. Jon's side lost none among the highborn, but House Dustin had been wiped from existence during the battle, as had House Ryswell - Lord Rodrik and all his sons - though Jon was not unhappy for that loss, as the Ryswells had been among the first to go over to the Boltons. But among the Riverlanders, the Tullys had lost knights, though Edmure Tully was safe and captive. Lord Jason Mallister was among the dead and with it Jon's personal hope of transferring the Riverlands to another great family. Bronn of House Blackwater had not been present during the battle, no doubt fighting somewhere in the South. Other families had lost second, third sons. There were many castles that lay empty now.

"The North first. We have a number of empty holdfasts now," Jon said with a sigh. "Filling them is going to be difficult. How many new houses can we create in one fell swoop? There's Last Hearth, Karhold, Barrow Hall, Castle Cerwyn... the Dreadfort, even."

"You don't have to appoint people to them right now, but at least you should lay the groundwork for who you plan to raise to those castles," Bran advised. "Perhaps you can reward some second sons of lesser houses with their own lines, those who've served bravely in battle."

"I can help overlook the assignment of castles," Rhaenys offered. "I wouldn't mind the chance to brush up on my Northern genealogies with the Grand Maester, actually."

"You and Sam, twin spirits, I swear," Jon said with a laugh. "Fine. As for the Riverlands... Edmure Tully will bend the knee publically. He'll foster his son with you, Bran. Not early, but several moons' turn every year once he's eight. That should be fair, and it wouldn't seem like I'm threatening the boy, since he'll be with his kin. In exchange, he gets to keep Riverrun and Lordship of the Trident. Now, for the rest..."

* * *

Jon's heels clacked against the stone of Winterfell's floor as he stalked down the hallway. Torches ensconced on the wall cast a dim glow through the vaulted hallway. He found his way through the passageways, the maze of Winterfell's inner workings like an old memory that rushed to the surface once actively recalled. 

There was only one guard outside the room he intended to visit, but there were hushed voices and footsteps inside. The guard bowed and moved to let him in, but Jon knocked anyway. 

"Er... I can announce you, Yer Grace," the man said slowly. "If it is your command."

"No, Caulay, that'll be alright. Have you eaten?"

"My shift's not over for another hour, Yer Grace," the guard responded.

"You can go. I expect I'll be able to defend myself from a wounded woman," Jon chuckled, pointing at Longclaw attached to his hip. "Go get yourself something from the kitchens and wake up the next guard after you've eaten."

"You're too kind, Yer Grace." The man bowed with a grin and trotted off in the other direction.

Hearing no voice forbidding his entry, Jon pushed through the door. The room was even darker than the dim hallway, but he could make out Sam working in the corner, grinding something in a mortar. Brienne of Tarth was seated inside (though unarmed), in a chair. Arya was on a stool at the foot of the bed. From here, he could not make out Sansa, but he saw her red hair splayed around her, and his heart clenched. Brienne turned towards him first, regarding him with a cool gaze. Jon had ordered her set free and allowed her visitation with Sansa; apparently, even in defeat, Brienne took her vows seriously. Jon respected her for it.

"Your Grace," she said flatly, in greeting, standing and giving him a stiff bow. Jon waved it off. 

"Podrick?"

"Sleeping, under guard, I believe. He asked me to pass along his gratitude for your kindness, Your Grace."

"Well, I won't have comrades from the Great War thrown in the dungeons of the castle they swore to protect from the dead," Jon muttered, as if that should have been obvious to her. "I appreciate your vigil over my sister, Lady Brienne."

Arya was next to him, wordlessly and soundlessly. He did not notice she had slunk near until she was close. "It was a rough ride from the North, Jon. She's... hanging on." Arya fixed him with a hard stare. "You haven't visited once."

Sam had just finished creating a paste that he left on the night table next to Sansa's bed. His friend cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow His Grace and the Princess to discuss family matters in private, Ser Brienne?"

Brienne nodded and stood up, leaving the room wordlessly. Sam tossed him a weary glance and clapped his shoulder on the way out, as Jon thanked him for all his hard work.

"You didn't visit," Arya repeated.

"I didn't know what to say or do," Jon said defensively. 

"I know. I still don't, when she wakes and has the energy to talk. But I've been by her side since the battle."

"You were angrier with her than I was, Arya. I just... I wouldn't know whether to hate her or forgive her for everything," Jon said.

Arya shook her head and turned her back to him, looking at Sansa laying in the bed. She gathered some of the paste and started to feed it to Sansa, whose mouth worked though her eyes did not open. "I'm not asking you to forgive, Jon. I haven't. But she is our blood, no matter how lost she's become. You can punish her later."

Jon swallowed the stone that had lodged in his throat. "I don't have the heart to punish her, not after seeing her like this. Sam told me she'll walk, at least. How bad is it otherwise?"

"She'll be a little lame the rest of her life. A limp. Sam can't say whether she'll have children, ever, either. The horse... it shattered bone in places it shouldn't be shattered," Arya said. "Seven hells, she should have stayed in her camp on the other side of the wall and she'd be whole. In irons, but whole."

Sansa's eyes fluttered as she woke a little. Jon shifted, catching a look at his sister's face. Her normally beautiful face was haggard and worn now, and deep dark rings surrounded her eyes. Her cheeks had become gaunt and her lips had lost their typical lively color. She seemed pallid and grey, as if the life had gone out of her. Only her red hair, though not lustrous, was bright still about her.

"Jon?" she muttered weakly, as she struggled to focus her vision on him. Arya stepped back and gave him a nod, before walking out of the room. Jon sat on the stool by the bed. 

"It's me, Sansa," he said. "I'm glad you're alive."

"You should have let me die," she said, grimacing in pain as she shifted a little under her covers.

"You know I could have never," Jon said. "At least, I thought you knew. I don't know what replaced your sense, Sansa, if you thought I would ever harm you. Ever."

Sansa's eyes became blurred with tears. "Everyone hurts, Jon. Even you, and you're the best man I know. I couldn't trust you."

"Am I Ramsay, Sansa? Am I Littlefinger? You're my bloody sister. Even back when you were insufferable with me, I would have laid my head down on a headsman's block for you," Jon said bitterly. "You're my **sister.** Nothing would change that."

"Not even now?" Sansa hacked out a painful cough, her features distorting in pain as she grimaced it off. "Gods know I... don't deserve it."

"No, you bloody don't, but I can't change my blood, Sansa. You suspected that about me when it came to my Targaryen ancestry, but I'm just as much a Stark." Jon's features softened. "Would it have all been different if they made you their queen, and I was just your Hand? Would you have given away the North to Daenerys if it meant our survival against the Night King?"

Sansa didn't answer, but the pain and guilt in her eyes was clear an answer as any for Jon. 

"She didn't deserve our betrayal, Sansa. Mad as she became. At the end of the day it was her decision to torch King's Landing and murder thousands, but we all had a hand in pushing her to the brink of that pit," Jon said.

"There was a hunger for power in her," Sansa said weakly. "Someone with that many titles and a belief in her own birthright... and then it turned out you had the birthright."

"Well, I don't. It should go to Aegon, if anything."

"It's all real?" Sansa asked. 

"It is. Daenerys is back."

"I'm a fool," she said. Tears flowed fast and hard now. "I'm a fool. I've become Cersei. I've let Littlefinger defeat me. His delusions are always in my head. I see daggers where there are none. I see betrayal in my own family's face." Her shoulders shook with pain and rage and shame. "I even considered harming Bran when I found out he had an heir on the way," she sobbed. "My own baby brother's child. My niece and nephew and all I could think of was how to turn it to my advantage."

"Your circumstances haven't been kind to you, Sansa. You didn't spend all those years in the best company." Jon rubbed his face and sighed. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to ship you off to Skagos or Essos or marry you to some landless knight. But you're going to have to accept that your life is in my hands now."

"I've never trusted anyone. Not in years," Sansa said. Jon wiped some of the tears from her eyes with his hand, some of the ice melting in his heart. 

"Well, I'm not asking you to trust me, I'm simply telling you you'll have to accept it," he said gruffly. "I don't trust you, but I will help you heal. Here and here," he said, pointing at her legs and her mind. "And I will never sell out my houses. I will never sell out the Starks, nor will I sell out the Targaryens. I am both, dragon and wolf."

"And then what?" she asked.

"I haven't decided. If you find a match, and I think it's somewhere you won't be a threat, you can settle, live a happy life. You can join a sept, if you want. If you continue to disobey me, I'll send you to the Silent Sisters. It's a damn shame, Sansa. I could have used you on my council. You could have helped me rule, but I can't trust you."

A tear crept down her cheek. "Will you ever? I can't blame you if you say no."

"I don't know. I won't shut the door on it, but you shouldn't think it's open either," he said, standing. He patted her hand, but she squeezed it tight before he could turn to leave.

"Jon... I'm sorry about threatening the dragons. Please tell Princess Rhaenys that." She paused for a moment, and despite the pain, she was able to smile a little. "I truly did think you'd taken a queen. She looks like one."

"She might have been one," Jon said. "She'd be better than me, I think."

"Then rule with her," Sansa said. Jon seemed taken aback. 

"What?"

"It's not exactly taboo among Targaryens," she murmured. Her words were becoming more slurred, as whatever concotion Sam must have given her started to take hold, lessening the grimace from the pain on her face. "But just a suggestion. You know you won't marry for love. May as well marry to shore up your claim. I hope you win, Jon. Not just because it's Daenerys, but... you would make a good king. As much as I wanted to think otherwise." 

_You won't marry for love._

_But..._

No, what he felt towards Rhaenys wasn't love, surely. She had grown on him immensely. He was fond of her, as a sister. Yet the idea of her with a crown on her head, sitting in a throne next to his, filled his mind unbidden. He almost heard the squeal of children, little ones with black and silver curls...

 _NO,_ he tried to think, but he was only half successful in blocking the thoughts. He could feel it still there, burrowing into his mind. For now, he could convince himself he was only dreaming of her future, not **theirs.**

"You're thinking about it even now," Sansa said, with sleepy realization. "Gods... you don't love her, don't you?"

"Sam's milk of the poppy has addled your mind," he said, recovering quickly. "Rest now, Sansa. I'll visit later." She sighed and sunk further into her pillows.

"Jon? My... my mother's house?" she asked, as he was nearing the door.

"Your uncle will be dealt with fairly, Sansa. Our problems are not his." Jon turned towards the door without looking behind, when he bumped into Rhaenys. He muffled the exclamation that came out of his mouth.

"Oh! Gods, Jon, I'm sorry," Rhaenys said. "I came looking for Sam, found a guard who told me where to find him... I'm sorry to intrude, I'll go."

"Please stay," Sansa croaked. Both he and Rhaenys turned in surprise to look at her. "I'd... I'd like a quick word, if I may." Jon stood and nodded, before turning on his heel and exiting the room. Lady Brienne was at the far end of the hallway, sitting on a bench and watching, but Arya was nowhere to be found. He sighed, looking back at the closed door of the room where Sansa and Rhaenys were speaking. He wondered what she had to say, but decided against waiting, heading to bed instead.

* * *

The next morning, Jon was re-crowned King in the North and King of Winter, in the Godswood, as the assembled chiefs of the true North, the Stark bannermen, and the Riverlander lords looked on. The Godswood was filled with a resounding cry as he was hailed. The crown Sam put on his head was a circlet with iron spikes, reminsicent of the long lost Crown of Winter. Jon did not want it to be frilly and it was not, nor was it light upon his head. The Northern banners who had been on Sansa's side, all of them save Glover, were called one by one, given a choice between the King's justice and fealty to Houses Stark and Targaryen forever more. All of them chose to submit, including Edmure Tully, who had been delivered the terms of his continued lordship of the Trident and acquiesced to it last night.

Then Robett Glover was dragged in chains in front of the assembly. He was to die, and Jon had even considered throwing him to Ghost to devour, until Bran and Tyrion had both wisely reminded him that Ramsey Snow also fed people to carnivores, and to follow that example would not be a good one.

Jon read the man's crimes, attested to by correspondence found by Arya in Winterfell that clearly showed his contribution to Sansa's paranoia and the fuel he added to the fire in stoking conflict between Sansa and him. Jon could not understand what the man had hoped to gain from it - Glover had become a powerful bannerman indeed, after the Great War. Perhaps he wished to weaken Sansa and rally the discontent lords in rebellion, take the North for his own? Whatever his motivation, Glover did not speak at all, not even to beg for his life. He might be a liar and untrustworthy, too coward to help when it became difficult, but not coward enough to beg for his life. For that, Jon afforded him the smallest sliver of respect.

"Do you have any last words, Robett Glover?" Jon asked, gazing upon the man with steel in his eyes and Longclaw in his hands. Glover's only answer was to spit at his feet. "Very well." The guards moved to hold him down, pushing his neck onto the block. "I, Aemon of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, First of my Name, King in the North and King of Winter, Rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die." Jon swung fast and hard, and Glover's neck and head were separated, the blood spurting and flowing down into the roots of the heart tree. Jon hoped whatever old god resided in the Godswood here was a thirsty one.

* * *

"You weren't as harsh as you could have been."

The words shook him out of his thoughts, as he stood in the darkened crypt. Jon spun around, his eyes adjusting to the blackness behind him, and made out Rhaenys. She wore a fine lady's dress, but still in the Northern style, as Lady Catelyn once might have. Jon was sure she could have worn a sackcloth and looked regal in it.

"What?"

Rhaenys didn't answer immediately, walking down the crypt chamber with the torch in her hand, glancing about her at the statues that stared at her wordlessly as she tred their halls in their midst. "Did you know that the First Men used to make something called a 'blood eagle' with their sacrifices? They would-"

"Break open the ribs and tear out the lungs to make wings, aye," Jon finished, his eyes adjusting to the torchlight. "Some of the Free Folk still do it as a ritual. They hang the entrails in the weirwood branches."

Rhaenys was now next to him, but her eyes were affixed on the statue in front of her. "It's likely best you didn't. The Riverlords would have been aghast, and... the last thing you need is whispers of Targaryen and Stark madness running in your veins concurrently. But I would have loved to see it. He tried to kill our dragons, he tried to kill Brandon and Meera."

"And he tried to kill you," Jon said. "I would have fed him to Ghost."

Rhaenys snorted. "Ghost deserves finer meals."

Jon chuckled, the low echoes of his voice carrying down the darkened hallways. While the castle was mostly heated, the crypts were colder than the rest of it, and Rhaenys shivered. She finally tore her gaze away from the statue and met his. "I've been looking all over for you. We needed to talk about the feast. Arya told me you might be down here." She looked about her. "The Stark family crypt."

"Did you know, once, I used to wonder if I'd be allowed to be buried here?" Jon gulped, remembering his old fears. "I knew Lady Catelyn would most likely be gone by the time I died, but what if she had made Robb swear to her on her deathbed that I would never be allowed to be buried here?" Jon looked at the statue in front of him, of his mother. Like he had with Daenerys, he pondered whether the engraven image was anything like what she must have been? It was a poor visage, surely.

What good was cold, unfeeling stone, when all a boy sought was the love of his mother?

"Is this...?"

"Aye, it's my mother. Lyanna Stark."

Quiet, for a moment, before Rhaenys spoke. "Lyanna Targaryen."

"What?" Jon said, his voice filled with shock. He had never expected this out of her.

"If only that she gave our house you, she would be one. But she married into the House too. If Father had won on the Trident, he would have ruled with two queens, one northern and one southern. You and I would have grown up together in the Red Keep, playing and enjoying and laughing and sharing our childhoods. I would never have let you feel unwanted, without a family, without a name. And you would have made sure I never had to worry about looking different, about having to run, about having to live in a cage."

Jon was not sure life would have been that idyllic, but Rhaenys made it sound so easy and wonderful that he chose to believe it nonetheless. "I'll be honest, I think I like the dark curls," he said in a low voice. "The silver hair is overrated." 

Rhaenys' mouth turned into a smile, and then a soft laugh. She placed the torch on an empty sconce, before turning to face him. "You're just saying that because of your own. Silly man." Her hand found his, and she pulled it closer to her. "I'm surprised you've taken to wearing this all the time," she said, indicating the orange favor she had given him.

"Why would I not? It's lucky, I think," Jon said. "And you gave it to me."

Their eyes met, and it felt like lightning passed between them. He was not sure how they had drawn so close, how her eyes seemed to swallow him into their violet pools.

"I'm not imagining things, am I, Jon?" she whispered. Jon's voice caught in his throat, and he had to gulp down the very large pebble that had suddenly blocked his airways.

_Rule with her. It's not taboo among Targaryens._

_She's my sister._

_Half-sister, which makes it tame for Targaryens._

_You were disgusted by the thought of your aunt._

_Not because she was my aunt._

_She's your sister._

_Do I care?_

_Others will._

_Hang the others. I'm a dragon._

_Doesn't matter. It will end in tragedy, like all your loves._

The war in his mind raged on until he realized he had left Rhaenys' question dangling between them. "Imagining what?" he asked, hoarsely, hoping she would say anything other than what he knew she was thinking, to give him time to think, give him time to realize that perhaps grabbing her and kissing her on her full, inviting lips wasn't the best idea-

The electric moment suddenly passed as she broke eye contact, turning away. "Nothing," she said. But he could see what she meant in her face, and gods damn him, a part of him had wanted her to say it. She looped her arm around his and it burned him, for he wanted to hold her fully, the way a man did a woman, even as he escorted her out of the crypts. The eyes of the old Starks fell upon him harshly, but his inner dragon roared back, for he would have taken her lips to his in front of all of them without another thought, even if it meant her doom, like all his other loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I'm a tease. Don't worry, we're on our way there. Enjoy the journey as well as the destination :)
> 
> Some of you may be surprised that Sansa is alive, and that you feel that Jon is letting her off too easy, but I don't think you should think that. His trust in her is completely shattered - before, Jon would never have told her he would make her a Silent Sister without a second thought, but he means it here. Sansa has to actually try to heal mentally from the scars inflicted on her by all the horrible people in her lives, instead of stooping to their level. Otherwise, get thee to a nunnery...
> 
> Will she? Idk. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe you'll find out next time, on Dragon Ball Z...


	22. Second Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get hot and heavy in Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, which is why it's part of a 2-for-1 package deal. Hope all you wonderful people are well.

**Arianne - II**

Her fingers gripped the letter tightly, as she dismissed the messenger who had come in the middle of night to deliver it. Moonlight seeped through her room in the palace and a light sea breeze blew in from the sea.

"Let me see," Aegon said. She handed it to him, hands shaking a little.

"Dire news from the North..." he read. "Jon Snow has defeated Sansa Stark, who is presumed dead. The Wall has... fuck."

"Accurate summary," Arianne said drily. In truth, her voice masked a sudden stab of panic. She had hoped that Sansa Stark would manage to solve the problem of Jon Snow, but the Northern civil war must have been more in Snow's favor than she had thought. 

"The Wall, Ari? How?"

"I don't know," she said. "The Northmen are a superstitious lot, but with what's crawled out of that cold hell in recent memory... I'll believe it."

"We have to accelerate our plans," Aegon muttered, pacing about the room. "We need to tell Daenerys that we won't have time to force tribute from the Free Cities. Rhaenys will have them warn all the kingdoms of our plans."

"How much did she know?" 

"Everything!" Aegon shouted in frustration. "Every bloody thing, and then she went and betrayed me. Gods damn you, Rhaenys. Daenerys will have her head when this is all over."

"We'll argue against it. Perhaps Arya Stark has been more coercive than we know," Arianne said. The silver-haired man only shook his head, pacing the room like an agitated animal. 

"Aegon," Arianne said soothingly. She stopped his pacing and rubbed his shoulders gently. "You cannot allow the thought of Rhaenys to distract you from what's at hand. I've faced betrayal from my own family. It stings. It stings me too, but we cannot be blown off course now. There is much to do."

Aegon sighed and relaxed. "You're right. How are we faring with the kingdoms? How is our control over Dorne?"

Arianne rubbed her temples. She had managed, with the help of the Fowlers, to rein in the great houses. She had even managed to pacify the Allyrions for Ryon's dismissal with bribes and honors. But Starfall...

Edric Dayne had vanished, and to her dismay, so had Allyria. That was a betrayal she had not wanted, she had even prayed against, but it had happened nonetheless. Allyria abandoned her for that blond boy she called her blood. "We are in firm control here, with the exception of Starfall. I've assigned Gerold Dayne to it as the Lord Protector, and if all holds well, I will grant it to him formally after a clear claim has been established to it by the Daynes of High Hermitage." In truth, she was simply biding her time until she had the capital to grant one of the great castles to Gerold. He was not a great lord, and some of the others would complain to have an up-jumped landed knight join their ranks, but Gerold was a Dayne, even if of a cadet branch. He had the next best claim.

"Good, good. If our position at home is secure, we should be fine heading north. What of the Stormlands?"

"We had communications with some of the Storm Lords, hoping to find our way into the Baratheon bastard's presence-"

Aegon's lip twitched. "I find it disgusting that Daenerys saw fit to grant Robert's bastard a name and a kingdom."

"Particularly surprising, considering that one would think that they had come across Robert and Renly Baratheon in their youths when they met Gendry," Arianne said, baiting Aegon's anger. "But, of course, Gendry is a different person from his father. They say he fought bravely in the North, against the dead, and that's why Daenerys saw fit to grant him the Stormlands."

"Are there any marriage alliances we could make to tie him to our cause?" Aegon asked.

In truth, this is where Arianne missed Allyria. She had hoped to broker a match there, seeing as how Edric and Gendry knew each other from the war, but now that possibility was dead in the water before it could be tested. "I will search among the eligible ladies. Gendry will not oppose Daenerys, not after having received his name and title from her. His banners will approve of a good Dornish match, as it would secure their lands in the South and they would not fear nor risk reprisals from Dorne for a while. It would buy peace, and that is something the Stormlands desperately need."

Aegon was quiet for a moment. "Who rules Griffin's Roost, now?"

Arianne frowned. _Why does he care?_ "Ser Ronnet Connington, I believe."

"Ser?" 

"The Conningtons were demoted from lords to landed knights by the Usurper. A blow for the service Jon Connington rendered to your father, no doubt," Arianne said.

Aegon's eyes shifted. _He's hiding something... no, it couldn't be. Is Connington alive?_ Arianne thought.

"I'll have to send a raven to Essos, then," he said. "How are the negotiations with the Reachmen?"

"Well, they're not aware we've opened up a dialogue with both sides," Arianne said. "It's better for them to think that they're the only ones with the inside path to a Targaryen restoration. Both houses want different things, however. Paxter Redwyne seems adamant that Desmera Redwyne sits aside the throne as Queen, but he's not aware of Daenerys. Neither is Leyton Hightower, who wants the Reach and parts of the Stormlands and some of Dorne, as well."

"We can't let them bleed each other too long, or they won't be to the strength we require. I'm inclined towards the Redwynes as they have the fleet, but I won't marry Desmera Redwyne. I'm also fairly sure he won't want to make his daughter the second wife, especially when Daenerys is the first."

"No, I can't imagine. Reachmen and the Faith... do you, then? Plan on taking two wives?" she asked, testing for his response.

"Perhaps," Aegon said.

"You realize that it might harm your argument that Jon Snow is not a legitimate Targaryen, of course?" she said. Aegon handwaved it away. She knew that he strongly believed that his Targaryen appearance would convince all that he was the true son of Rhaegar Targaryen, not some Northern pretender.

Aegon's eyes bore into hers hungrily. "I need someone who can match her and balance her. Daenerys would eat the Redwyne girl alive. More importantly, I need heirs."

"What do you mean?" Arianne asked. His meaning, however, was clear - the Dragon Queen, for one reason or another, was not a reliable source of heirs. That was the opportunity she had thirsted for.

"I mean that there is no guarantee that Daenerys and I will have children," Aegon said, licking his lips. "You, however..."

Arianne stepped towards him and slipped her hand into his breeches, firmly gripping his cock, which sprang to attention at the touch. Her mind, however, was entirely focused elsewhere - was Daenerys Targaryen barren? She had heard rumors, but Aegon seemed to hint that they were real. If it truly meant that Daenerys could not further the line of Targaryens...

Suddenly, Aegon's agitation at the loss of Rhaenys became evident. She was his hope for the continuation of the Targaryen line. Daenerys offered nothing in that regard. It was not simply the betrayal of a sister, but the betrayal of someone he had thought to be his future bride, the mother of the future Targaryens.

No matter. Rhaenys' loss was her gain. She had found her opening. As she stroked his length, she was pleased to feel him buckle ever so slightly towards her. "A queen would be more than happy to serve her king," she whispered into his ear. "And I would be more than happy to have your little dragon grow in my belly."

Arianne purred when Aegon pressed her hard against the stone wall. She did not mind that some of the rough-hewn rocks pressed their jagged edges into her back, scraping against her delicate skin, not when the man pushing her up against them took her mouth this exquisitely. She was not given to being overwhelmed, but the fire with which Aegon possessed her made her feel like a moth drawn to a flame, dancing around something dangerous and entrancing.

And oh, Aegon was beautiful. She would be his Queen.

Why not? Dorne was a good prize, but what was it compared to Seven Kingdoms? What was it compared to mothering the rebirth of the lineage of dragons? The grandiose thoughts that filled her as Aegon slipped the straps of her already-revealing dress off her shoulders and onto the floor deafened her to the fact that it was not her name that Aegon whispered for only them and the gods to hear. Perhaps if it was Daenerys' she would have noticed, but she did not notice this one. 

Arianne did not want to think too much of her cousin Rhaenys now. After all, she had given this up willingly, it would seem.

Aegon's hand snaked down her belly and between her thighs, one finger dipping into the wet folds of her core as she keened his name into his ear, nibbling on an earlobe as it slipped deeper and deeper until touching a sensitive part of her that sent shockwaves reverberating through her core.

"Take what's yours, my king," she growled. Aegon did not need commanding twice. She did not care that he likely tore the very sheer smallclothes she had worn, not when he took them off her so quickly, leaving them bunched in a disheveled heap on the cool floor. She did not care that he tossed her onto the bed and practically leaped on her, pinning her with his weight. And she certainly did not have the capacity to care when Aegon entered her for the first time, filling her so deliciously that she would have cried his name with abandon for anyone with ears to hear in Sunspear, had he not had the foresight to slip two fingers into her mouth for her to suckle on as he took her completely.


	23. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys feels envy.

**Rhaenys - VI**

**Eleventh Moon, 306 A.C.**

"How is she?" Bran asked her, panic rising in his voice. Rhaenys tried not to laugh at the solemn young man so clearly distraught, not when his wife was in the other room in extremely high spirits, waiting for him with their bundle of joy in her arms.

"You're not going to ask the child's gender?" she teased.

"Princess!" Bran protested. "My lady wife?"

"It's a good sign you were worried about her first, Brandon Stark. Says your head is bolted on the right way," she said with a small laugh. Jon rolled his eyes, his tension dissipating as he clearly understood the meaning of her humor.

"I hardly think she'd be jesting about here if something had happened to Meera, Bran," Jon said drily. "She's alright then?"

Rhaenys smiled now, genuinely, no hint of teasing or joking in her voice. "Both the baby and the mother are fine. Go in, they're ready for you." She held the door open behind her, gesturing inwards. Bran couldn't roll his wheelchair into the room fast enough, taking off like a madman possessed. She couldn't help but beam at the younger man's anxious joy. Her smile slipped a little as she caught Jon's eye, however. She tried not to let it show, just as she had tried to put their encounter in the crypts behind them, but she hardly felt as if it was working.

"Bran was worried," Jon said, jarring her back to the present, as he closed the door before they could slip inside. They stood alone outside the chamber, and the noises inside faded to a dull din behind the thick oaken door. Rhaenys tried not to let it show just how much an effect his steel-grey eyes were having on her

"Well, bully for him. It's not as if he had to do the hard work," Rhaenys said with a smirk tugging at her lips, hoping desperately that the lost feeling in her heart was not mirrored in her eyes. 

"I know what you mean, Rhae. But like I heard you once say... waiting on the edge of a battle you can't escape is worse than being in it." His eyes traveled past her to the door. "The future of House Stark lies beyond there, and for some reason I'm nervous."

"It's not every day you become an uncle," she pointed out. "You've done nothing but lose family members over the years. Enjoy the fact that your numbers are growing by one." She paused, before saying with a grin, "if it makes you feel better, he's too young to detest you just yet."

Jon chuckled as the door pushed open and Sam and the midwives exited the room. Sam gave Jon an unannounced, joyous, tearful hug, shouting his congratulations to the royal uncle for the entire castle to hear, before departing to his other duties. Both of them entered the room, letting the door close behind them.

Meera lay on the bed, fresh linens piled around her, her skin glistening from a towel bath given to her for cleanliness by the midwives. She seemed exhausted, but her spirits were far higher than they had been during labor, and she gave Rhaenys an appreciative smile. The baby, swaddled in clothes, was in Bran's arms, close to his chest, as Arya stood next to him, beaming in a way Rhaenys had rarely seen before. Bran was enraptured by the child in his arms as if he was holding something unbelievable. Jon walked directly for him, kneeling by Bran's chair. Rhaenys saw him look at his brother with shining eyes.

"Meet your uncle, King Jon," Bran whispered, tilting the baby towards him. "You can't ask for a better one. Your Grace, meet your nephew, Robb Stark." He handed the bundle to Jon, who took the child into his arms gingerly and gazed at him as if he was the most precious thing in the world. The child began to making cooing noises.

"Hello, little Robb," Jon said in a low, reverent voice. "Do you know who you were named after?"

"A great King in the North," Arya said firmly.

"Aye, he was that," Jon whispered to the child. "But he was also the best brother someone could ask for. I have a feeling you'll be someone's best big brother someday, too." He smiled as he rocked the child gently in his arms, and to her disbelief - and that of everyone else in the room - he began to hum a low tune, soft and beautiful, full of hope and joy. Little Robb made noises of soft curiosity, and the scene became too much for Rhaenys then, watching Jon hold a child so lovingly.

It was then that she knew that she, at least, was certainly not imagining things. She had come to care for Jon, as a person, as a ruler, as a member of her House, but she could not help but be caught in the orbit of his character, his strength, and his beautiful looks. It was an inexorable force, and she could no longer deny the pull. If this was love, she hated it, because it caused horrid envy to sprout inside her, commingling with an ache she could not salve, and so it was that when Meera wanted to let Little Robb's "Auntie Rhaenys" hold him, everyone turned around in surprise to find out that she was no longer in the room.

Everyone, save Arya.

* * *

She wondered if she ought to cry, but it was not that kind of pain. Tears came for sharp things; this pain was dull, constant. It felt as if it would fade any second, but it did not, pulsating at the same, infuriating pace. It would have driven her mad if she let herself dwell on it, stuck inside her quarters, but a rattle of the doorknob shook her out of her own self-pity. She stood to tell Jon to leave, that she was feeling indisposed, but the doorknob rattled in a queer way, and suddenly the lock came undone from the outside, even before she could begin to make her way to it. Arya slinked in, shutting the door behind her silently and placing her finger above her lips in a sign not to make too much noise. Rhaenys sat back down, and the two women stared at each other in silence.

"Meera was a bit upset," Arya said softly.

"Arya..."

"Fine. What in seven hells was that about?" Arya's voice was gentle, even if her words were not. She stalked over and sat on the mattress next to Rhaenys. "Don't think of trying to hide it from me either. I learned all your tells on the ship."

"I-"

"Don't say you don't like children, Rhaenys. That's horseshit. You love children more than anything," Arya cut in sternly.

Rhaenys gave her an aggravated look. "How did you know that was what I was going to say?"

The grey-eyed woman shrugged. "I can tell when you're being honest. If you're going to lie, do it to someone who can't read you." 

"I don't know," Rhaenys said. "I... I have a suspicion. But I'm not sure if I'm just imagining things." At Arya's perched eyebrow, she waved her hand. "It has nothing to do with Little Robb, who's a perfectly adorable child, nor does it have anything to do with his parents."

"You've been strange ever since Jon told me you spoke with Sansa. Did-"

"It did have to do with what your sister told me, but it wasn't necessarily bad. It just made me think."

Arya huffed. "You can stop speaking in vague terms. It's Jon, isn't it?"

Rhaenys froze, and Arya pounced on her moment of hesitation like a wolf. "Oh Gods, Rhae, you can't be serious." Arya laughed. "Fate clearly has an obsession with Jon, throwing thrones and crowns and beautiful women at him, all of which he's reluctant to accept. I'm assuming by his oblivious behavior that he doesn't know."

"I don't know. I can't tell if the feelings are returned, or..." Rhaenys rubbed her collarbone gently. "I almost asked, in the crypts." In truth, it was not _almost -_ she had asked, but Jon's hesitation filled her with dread and so she backed away, and he did not press her. Gods, she wished he had pressed her, and the whole naked truth would have come spilling forth from her lips. "You're disgusted," Rhaenys said, though her tone conveyed that she was asking a question rather than making a statement.

"The Targaryen family tree is less of a tree and more of a... wreath," Arya said with a smirk. "No, it doesn't disgust me. I grew up idolizing two sisters who married their brother, after all. You dragons play by different rules, for better or worse."

Rhaenys let out a breath she didn't even know she had kept held. "Gods, you wouldn't believe how close I was to asking him. But I knew he would be disgusted with me. He wasn't raised a Targaryen, and it would seem foul to him. Your Old Gods look down on it - and that's not even beginning to touch on the Seven or the Lord of Light."

"You don't care for them, so why should it matter?"

"Jon cares. They might be trees to anyone else, but Jon does care," Rhaenys insisted. Of course, she herself could not deny that there was an old power about the trees that the First Men worshipped, but she was not about to admit it for fear of superstition. Even under the care of zealots, she had not given much thought to gods. What were invisible gods to dragons?

Arya looked away. "There's only one god, Rhae. We all meet him someday or another, but until that day, all we can say is 'not today.' Do you want to meet Death with this secret in your heart still?"

Rhaenys didn't answer, but she knew that to tell Jon and see the rejection in his eyes would be like meeting Death early. She would rather live with a hidden heart and the love of a brother than gamble it all for the inferno of a lover.

"Do you remember what I told you about Jon? How my mother treated him?" Arya said, cutting in.

"Of course."

"Jon's always believed himself to be undeserving of things he really does deserve. Don't make the mistake of falling into line with his thinking."

"It's not that, Arya. When I saw him holding little Robb, I felt my heart tear in two. I was burning with envy. I wanted that _for_ me, _with_ him, and it was powerful." She looked up at Arya with fear in her eyes. "I'm not sure if it's the madness in our blood, but what if it is?"

"You'd hardly be the first person to long for a baby after having held someone else's. I wouldn't jump to attribute that to family madness," Arya smirked at her annoyingly. "Besides, when Jon said he wanted to introduce Little Robb to his 'Auntie Rhae', perhaps he meant it very literally."

Rhaenys threw a pillow at her head, which the other woman deftly sidestepped. "S'not funny, Arya."

"From where I stand, it is. Gods, he doesn't even know how you feel, and you're acting as if the Seven Hells have been unleashed. Get a hold of yourself and talk to him." Arya's eyes softened and she gave Rhaenys a small hug. "You follow my advice or don't; that's up to you. We're set to leave Winterfell in a fortnight after the feast, and Jon will march the army west and set sail for Pyke." Rhaenys heard the unspoken suggestion: if she didn't tell him now, he'd go off to fight another battle and it would be moons before they saw one another.

"Your sister told me I would make a good queen for him," Rhaenys said quietly. Arya nodded.

"I know. Sansa told me when I last visited. I don't think it was the milk of the poppy speaking, because she repeated the suggestion. She seems to think you're the counterbalance Jon desperately needs." Arya made for the door, opening it a crack before looking behind her. "And I agree," she said. Her eyes met with Rhaenys' and she gave her a small smile.

* * *

She did finally meet Robb Stark, fiendishly beautiful child that he was, with his dark brown curls and steel-blue eyes, and she was glad to have done so. Meera pressed her about why she had left so quickly, but Rhaenys was able to convincingly (or so she hoped) plead off that she felt as if she was intruding on a family reunion, that the Starks deserved it. Meera and Bran were quick to assure her that she was as good as family, and that 'Auntie Rhae' was welcome to come to visit Robb anytime, which Rhaenys found incredibly touching. However, there was a little spark in Brandon's eyes, as if he knew Rhaenys wasn't telling the whole truth. If he suspected something, Rhaenys was glad that he didn't press the issue.

Even though she knew deep down that Arya was right, she avoided Jon as much as possible outside of Council meetings. It wasn't lost on the other councilors that something had shifted between her and Jon, but none of them seemed to broach the issue. Tyrion's glances gave away his curiosity, but she didn't think he had any cause to know what the real source of their chilled relationship was. Jon, for his part, seemed hurt about it. After a council meeting, he had knocked on her door, asking to spend time with her, but she had pled off with excuses of illness and exhaustion. Another time, he had tried to get her to come train with Dark Sister with him, but she had turned that down too.

What she couldn't avoid was the feast they had planned. Arya was hardly a logistical mastermind, and Meera was still recovering from childbirth, and so much of the responsibility fell to her. She worked closely with Tyrion, Sam, and Bran in coordinating things, organizing seating arrangements, deciding what to serve, how much of their ale and wine reserves to use, ordering Targaryen and Stark decorations for the main hall, and a presentation ceremony for Little Robb to the northern lords, who would no doubt greatly enjoy seeing a Stark heir after so much loss in the family. But with this, like with the rest of her duties, she made sure to make herself scarce as much as possible whenever Jon was around or involved. Her plan worked to perfection, until the feast itself.

She had not expected Northern feasts to be the way they were. It was boisterous and smokey in the great hall as the lords and ladies of the North sat assembled in front of the King, as did some of the Riverlander lords who had sworn fealty, including Edmure Tully. Men recounted war tales, and after the raucous cheers died down once Little Robb was introduced to the realm, they sang songs in honor of the Young Wolf, in honor of his great victories at the Whispering Wood and Oxcross, and cursed the Boltons and the Freys. That was clever on Bran's part in leading that, given that there wasn't a better unifier of the North and the Riverlands than their combined hatred of the Freys and Boltons.

But all that aside, Bran had worked some cruel trick in that she was seated to Jon's right, and there was no escape from him. Where normally their conversation would have flowed easily, they were silent with one another, preferring to speak to their other neighbors rather than with each other. She knew that it was her fault for pushing Jon away, but it still stung. As tables were cleared and space was made for a dance floor, ale flowed and songs were sung as lords twirled their ladies around. Some of it was the refined southern culture that her education had introduced her to, but much of it was unfamiliar, rustic, Northern. She found herself sucked into it until reality came rudely knocking in the form of Wynafryd Manderly. She was pretty - Rhaenys would have had no issue admitting that under normal circumstances - but when she dared to ask Jon for a dance, Rhaenys found her grip on her wine goblet tighten. When Jon actually _accepted_ , she was sure she would bend the steel goblet permanently. At first, they were engaged in the Northern dances, which were more line dances than partner dances, and her jealousy began to lessen somewhat until the bards slowed the tempo and struck up a much slower song. Now, Jon and Wynafryd were partnered, and achingly close together, and Rhaenys was so enflamed that the song was interrupted for a second by an incredibly loud roar from Eliarron outside. The confusion among the guests caused Rhaenys to realize just how aggravated she had become, and excusing herself, she left the hall. Her path took her not back to her room, but through the maze of hallways that was Winterfell until she found herself atop a lonely turret, leaning against the crenellations and looking at the starry moonlit night sky of the North.

Measured footsteps sounded in her ears a few moments later, though she didn't spin around, knowing whose gait it was by instinct.

"Why'd you leave?" Jon asked her, leaning over a crenellation, taking in the same stars she was. He was too close now, and she wanted nothing more than to flee from him, but she steeled herself and planted her feet. 

"Northern feasts are quite a lot," she said.

"Well, we're not a refined people," he said with levity in his voice. "Especially not the Free Folk. But you put together an excellent feast. You'll run one of the finest castles in Westeros one day."

 _I want to run our castle, you stupid man. I want to run our kingdom._ She shoved that thought deep down as soon as it bubbled to the surface. Instead, she forced out a stiff, "thank you, Your Grace."

Jon frowned and turned away from the sky, leaning back, into the crenellation with his arms folded. His eyes were on her, though she kept her view centered away. "What's the matter, Rhae? You've been avoiding me for the past few days." He paused, and then asked, "does it have something to do with what Sansa told you?"

In a way, it did, though Sansa had not exactly told her something she didn't know. She was just the first person other than Rhaenys to see it, and that made it so much harder to deny. Kept to herself, she could have simply passed it off as a flight of fancy, or the vagaries of a curious mind, but if someone like Sansa could see through her feelings, that meant it was more obvious than she thought.

"No," she lied. "I just truly have not been feeling well."

"That's good enough to explain why you didn't come train with me," Jon said. "But it doesn't explain the change in how you've acted with me. And... I spoke to Sam about giving you something for the exhaustion. He said you never came to see him, and that when he asked, you said you were fine. Is this about what happened in the crypts?"

"It's nothing, Jon." She shivered in the chill, drawing her cloak closer around her. Jon unfastened his own, far heavier one, placing it around both of them.

"Will you sit with me, for now at least?" he asked.

She did not want to. She shouldn't, for fear that her emotions would overcome her, or drive her to some rash action. But there was a concealed plaintive note in his voice, one she did not want to disappoint. "Here, in the cold?"

Jon shrugged. "It's plenty warm under the cloak." She couldn't deny him that, at least. They sat leaning against the parapet, close together. Rhaenys felt heat blossom inside her chest, not all from the shared warmth. 

"Truth is, I didn't want to send you off to the Eyrie without spending a few moments with you, at least." He sighed, leaning his head back against the stone. "It's going to be a long trip to Pyke."

Rhaenys' insides were gripped with a frozen fear. Though some part of her mind told her not to, she let her fingers slip through his, intertwining as their hands closed around each other. "You'll stay safe, won't you?" she begged, more than asking. "If not for me, for Little Robb."

"For you is reason enough," Jon said, stirring her heart. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, and they melded into one another, staring off at the starry sky.

"The North is something else," she said quietly. "I've never seen a place so... untouched. Very little of the beauty is made by men. I think your gods lavished all their attention here and none of it elsewhere."

"It's why we keep to the trees. All our ceremonies, few as they are, revolve around them. Marriages especially."

"I've read about the northern custom," she said. "It's far more simple than the southern one - less formality, standing around, wasting time, anyhow. I think it's better." Pressing her luck, she asked, "was your dance with Lady Wynafryd that successful?" She cursed herself for her hypocrisy. She'd lectured Jon about marrying for politics, to secure alliances and soldiers, and now she was desperately wishing that he was not fond of a girl, who, if he married, would shore up his support in the North for generations.

Jon laughed, a rumbling noise that surprised her. "Of course not. I couldn't turn her down, not as her father is one of my strongest and most loyal bannermen. Wynafryd is good. She'll make some young lord happy someday."

"But not you?"

Jon looked down at her. "Not me. People I love die." Unspoken there was Daenerys, but there was also another hurt, duller, more faded, yet still present.

"Who was she? The other one," Rhaenys asked, her curiosity piqued. Jon had never mentioned it, and Arya had been vague enough about Daenerys.

"Her name was Ygritte. She was one of the Free Folk," Jon explained. He told her the story of how they met, how they grew to care for another before it ended with her dying in his arms in Castle Black. He did not tear or choke up when speaking about it, though his voice was heavy with the weight of memory. 

"I'm sorry. Even if it was long ago," Rhaenys offered. "She seemed like a good woman."

"Aye, she was. And a good warrior, too. She didn't deserve the bad luck I brought on her."

"You didn't," Rhaenys said. "It's tragic what happened, but luck had little to do with it. It was duty, Jon. Your duty to the Watch, hers to her people. In the end you both chose the same thing."

"What is duty compared to a woman's love?" Jon echoed. Rhaenys' ears perked at the saying.

"Did you come up with that?"

Jon shook his head no. "It was our great-great-uncle, Aemon Targaryen, the maester I mentioned. He told me that when I wanted to desert the Watch to go follow Robb into war." 

"Well, given that you chose duty over a woman's love twice..." Rhaenys poked at him, causing him to chuckle. 

"It wasn't easy, you know," he said defensively. "Ygritte put three arrows in me for it." His eyes searched the skies, as if seeking some kind of answer among the stars. "Sometimes I wonder, if I was just another person, some anonymous person, someone without a last name. Would I have to choose, all the time? Would I have to sacrifice people I love for the duty that weighs on my shoulders?"

Rhaenys lifted her head off his shoulder and met his eyes. "If you were any of those things, you wouldn't be you, Jon. Fate and chance are only half of what happens to us, the part we can't control. The other half is how we react to things. You aren't one to run from a battle, or to shirk your duty, or to pass it off to others." _Even though I want you to, so that you and I can have more time._

"It was brave of you, he said after a while. "To run from Asshai, from someone you knew to someone you didn't."

"I think I knew Egg less than I assumed," she said, sadness creeping into her heart. "Egg's not evil, but he's sided with it. Everything else aside, I know what she'll do when she gets here. Daenerys is going to bring fire and blood to Westeros. She wanted to kill Lyagar - I think she knew he was fated to be yours. I couldn't let that happen."

"So you were protecting the dragon of someone you didn't even know existed?" he chuckled. 

"It's our blood, Jon. There's magic in it, the same as your Northman ancestry. Dragonblood calls out to dragonblood." It felt good to lean on him like this, warmed in their own little cocoon, with nothing separating them, nothing driving them apart. Rhaenys suddenly dreaded if he would ask her to get up or excuse himself to go to bed, but he did not. She looked up at his eyes to see if he was sleeping, but he was still awake, his grey eyes boring into her. 

She wanted to pour it all out then, to tell him that her feelings were starting to run deep, like the roots of one of their god trees here in the North, but he smiled at her and her courage broke. It was not worth it. She did not want the fleeting hope that he would tip her chin to face him and take her lips with his, only for revulsion to shatter her heart. No, this separation was what they needed. Distance would clear her heart, salve the feelings that were starting to grow. She would change things when she returned - love him only as a sister might, not in the way of a lover as she dearly desired.

"You'd best come back from Pyke in one piece. Or I'll feed you to Eliarron," she said, instead.

He held up his hand and showed her the orange favor once more. "I made a vow I intend to keep till my last day, Rhaenys."

For all her cold reasoning, her traitorous heart told her that forgetting him was a lost cause, for her fall was too fast to break.

* * *

"You didn't tell him," Arya said, as she saddled her horse. Rhaenys glanced over at her as she laced up her riding boots.

"What are you talking about?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Have it your way, then. Just know that if you feel like a lost and lovesick puppy for the rest of this trip, I take no responsibility. My advice was to tell the truth."

Rhaenys ignored her, leaving the stable to check the status of their supply wagons. They were not taking much to the Eyrie - enough for a moon's turn, if necessary - but mostly she wanted away from Arya's piercing eyes, burrowing into her for not having confessed. She said her farewells to Bran and Meera, giving Robb a kiss on both his cheeks (and telling him "be good for your mama and papa, for Auntie Rhae, alright?"), and giving Tyrion a begrudgingly respectful nod. Sam gave her some assorted tinctures and ointments, nervously pointing out the use of every one of them - just for safety, he insisted. Rhaenys found the man's concern touching, and she gave him a warm thanks as he blushed.

She and Arya rode out first, their guards and supply wagon trailing behind them. Eliarron burst forth from the nearby forest. He looked magnificent, his ochre scales rippling like fire against the overcast sky. Lyagar, hearing his brother take flight, also followed with a piercing shriek. He blended into the cloudy sky more - something Rhaenys realized would be dangerous in battle, for their enemies. Eliarron flew overhead in a circling pattern, but Lyagar kept traveling, heading towards Jon.

In front of them, heading away from the Kingsroad and in the direction of the western shore of the North, was a large column of men, bearing a panoply of flags. All of them bore the black and white standard of the Dragon, Jon's Targaryen sigil, and others carried the sigils of the Starks. The constituent lords had their own flags. Jon was there, somewhere. They had not had proper time to say goodbye, not this morning, but the memory of their time spent together the night before warmed Rhaenys' heart. She watched the column wind away from Winterfell, a sudden feeling of dread enveloping her.

Something fell from the sky then - a little white fleck, one hardly large enough for her to notice, if it hadn't wandered directly across her sight. But then another, and another, and more fell, a gentle cascading of flakes.

Rhaenys let out a soft gasp as she looked up at the snow falling gently to earth. She had never seen it before, only read about it in her books, but it was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. She looked at Arya excitedly, but her friend wore an expression that was grim, even as she smiled crookedly at her. 

"Winter is coming," Arya said. "And with it, fire and blood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know summer and winter usually last for years. This summer and fall, the one following the defeat of the White Walkers, was about a year and a half in length. This winter will be about five-six months long. In my head, the defeat of the White Walkers normalizes the climate a little (no more Ice Age in the North) and summers are anywhere from 1.5-2.5 years-long, while spring and fall are short transition seasons of 4-ish months each, and then winters are about half a year.
> 
> Obviously, our characters haven't figured that out yet, given they're still navigating all the seasons for the first time since the big win over the WW.
> 
> Also, the winter is going to drive some plot points forward, so that too.
> 
> Yes, I know, I'm dragging out the Jon/Rhaenys a bit, but I promise we're near the end of the angst :P if it's not clear, I think it's important to note that Rhaenys doesn't really have an issue with trying to bonk her brother, it's more her fear of rejection on Jon's end, of losing the only family who actually treats her like family (Aegon, while really not an EVIL character in this fic, is obviously kind of a douchebag) that makes her hesitant to press forward. Jon, on the other hand, also wants to bonk his sister, but he does have to overcome a bit of a hill when it comes to his Targaryen nature (and inborn tendencies to bone relatives) warring with his upbringing.
> 
> Anyway... next time on Dragon Ball Z...


	24. The Battle of Pyke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon brings the war to the Iron Islands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Iron-born friendly.

**Jon - VIII**

**Twelfth Moon, 306 A.C.**

Jon felt a crunch under his boot. Salt, smoke, and ash filled the air, seeping into his nostrils and choking his lungs. When he raised his foot, he saw more of the blackened dirt that lay everywhere, save this was hard. A nudge with his toe revealed that it was not dirt, but charred bone instead - a child's bone. He should have felt sick to his stomach, but he didn't. Deepwood Motte was a ruin now, the fort completely burned to the ground. What remained of the wall and the bailey was little more than burned-out cinders, like overused kindling. Where bodies lay unmolested, they were bloodstained, covered in gore, faces frozen in expressions of horror as they met their violent ends. Everywhere else, the bodies had turned to ash.

A soft stream of white flecks fell from the sky, some melting as they touched the ground. Only when some of it landed on Jon's cloak did he realize that it was not, in fact, all snow, but ash and dust from the conflagration mixed into the snow. Tormund's hand clapped his shoulder, as the larger man leaned to whisper into Jon's ear. "Your lords are gettin' pissed," he said. "You should speak to them. I don't think your sister will ever be able to show her face in the North again, not after this." With another clap, Tormund marched off, barking orders at the contingent of Free Folk troops under his command.

"Pod?"

The young knight jogged forward, his armor clanking as he did. "Your Grace?"

"Have the lords assemble at the column. Get one of the pages and have them fetch me parchment and a quill."

"Right away, Your Grace." With a perfunctory bow, Podrick trotted away to carry out his orders. Brienne sidled up next to him, her grey iron armor and white cloak seeming out of place in the ashen destruction.

"So many innocents, dead," she intoned, gravely. "I thought we were past this."

"Did you really, Brienne?" Jon asked. He felt hollow inside, gazing upon what had once been one of the greatest forts in the North. Land and property, of course, could be resettled, could be rebuilt. But no one would come here to restore the lives that had been taken away. Lives that he could have saved. Aye, he'd helped to save the living at Winterfell, but he had failed at staunching the bleeding of the realm. There was no peace, there would be no peace, until something fundamentally changed. He shut down that avenue of thought abruptly. Daenerys, too, had envisioned such change, until that change came in the form of endless fire and blood, mostly against innocents. He would not make the same mistake of falling prey to his own mounting delusions.

"No," she corrected. "But I had hoped."

"So did I," Jon sighed. "So did I."

Lyagar screeched overhead as he flew about, perhaps agitated and jealous that something else had caused so much fire. Jon reached out through their bond, but the thoughts of the dragon were not comprehensible in human terms, not in words or imprints on the mind. Instead, he received a series of impressions. They surprised him, for they matched his own - sorrow, and underneath it, a simmering rage, and a desire to bring vengeance on those who had caused it.

"Lord Glover's family? Any sign of them?" Brienne asked.

"Dead. They found Lady Sybille Glover hacked to bits. The children were thrown from the bailey and dashed against the stones. They were the last of House Glover, as far as I know," Jon said. "What Sansa did, making a pact with the Ironborn..."

"Your Grace, your sister..." Brienne bit her lip before continuing, clearly treading around her words carefully. "It was like she was someone else, near the end of the war."

"Like Cersei Lannister?" Jon finished bitterly. Brienne was quiet in response, but that was response enough. Jon clenched and unclenched his fist, his rage growing. "Sybille Glover was Lord Ondrew Locke's daughter. Ondrew's sons died, one at the Red Wedding, one ranging beyond the Wall. Ondrew himself died eight moons ago. The new Lord Locke is her cousin. They will want vengeance. All of my lords will, even the ones who supported Sansa."

"Will you give it to them, Your Grace? Or will you give them justice? The two are rarely one and the same," she said.

Jon did not respond to his new Kingsguard, who had pledged to him at Sansa's insistence. A young page boy ran into his midst, before being stopped by Brienne. She inspected the boy thoroughly, checking him for knives and the like, before letting him through. The boy bowed and gave Jon a small box filled with paper, quills, and a small inkwell. Jon wrote against a small plank of wood on the ground, a short message to Bran at Winterfell, letting him know what had happened here and to pass the message on to Arya and Rhaenys.

That was who he really wanted to talk to - Rhaenys. Her level-headedness and her advice was something he had started to rely on more than he realized. She would give sound counsel, but more than that - he trusted her. He knew he could tell her how he truly felt and that she would not feed him whatever he wanted to hear, but rather what he needed to.

 _You could rule alongside her_ , Sansa had said. Jon shrugged off the thought, but it was undeniable. Rhaenys was born to be a ruler. He sighed. She was needed at the Eyrie, but he needed her here, by his side.

 _For the advice, or something else?_ inquired a voice in his head.

 _For both,_ insisted another voice in response.

Jon shook the thought out of his head. The oddity of their parting still stuck with him, making him uneasy. Rhaenys looked as if she was going to confess something both times, as she had come near to doing in the crypts, but he had not pressed her. Now he kicked himself. The thought that she was his sister was an increasingly minor quibble in his own mind, but the more he thought of her, the more he could feel his dagger slipping into Daenerys' heart, of Ygritte heaving her last breaths in his arms as she bled out from her wounds on the grounds of Castle Black. He could little deny that he wanted her, not anymore. Not even he was so obstinate as that. But he could deny himself because it would mean saving her life.

Those he loved died, without fail. His whole family had died. Sansa may as well be as good as dead, for the shattered, splintered relationship they had. Arya, with her special skills, was an exception to the rule. Even now, he feared what might befall Bran and his happy family. He could not subject Rhaenys to a fate like that. He thought to himself about how he had felt knowing that he had once had a brother and sister who had died long ago. Even then, he had mourned both in his heart, siblings that he had never gotten to know. Now that both were alive, he did not wish to give it up, especially not Rhaenys; even Aegon, if it was possible, he would much rather live than die.

"Your Grace, the lords are assembled," Podrick said, interrupting his thoughts. Jon gave him a nod and marched on.

* * *

"We ought to raze Pyke to the ground!" shouted Erron Locke, spittle flying from his mouth. The man pounded a fist down on the table. "For Sybille and her children! For the whole North!"

Shouts of approval and agreement rang out among the Northern lords, though the Riverlanders looked a little more subdued.

"My lords," Jon roared above the din. "Peace, my lords!" The chatter in the tent died down, as Lyagar screeched overhead. "Lord Locke, come forward."

Locke, to his credit, did not shy away now that he had been singled out. He faced Jon, proud, enraged, and bloodthirsty. Jon stared him down for a moment before shifting his gaze to the other lords assembled behind him. "Does anyone here have reason to doubt that I will bring justice to the Iron Islands?" No one responded. He chose to address Locke directly now. "Do you doubt that I will deliver on my promises to you, Erron?"

The grey-haired lord shook his head, his expression softening only just a minuscule amount. "No, Your Grace."

Jon stood now, walking among the lords. "What you saw here is what I saw on Bear Island before I named Lord Bjornir of House Magnar its new lord. The Ironborn rape and pillage their way across the western shores. They have little to give, but they take much. They always rise, every time, because every enemy that faces them is too merciful." Jon unsheathed Longclaw and planted it in the dirt. "I am not Daenerys Targaryen. I will not murder the innocent smallfolk of the Iron Islands, not when among them are hundreds and thousands of thralls. This is my vow: we will burn the Iron Fleet, timber by timber until they have not even a raft between them all!" Loud yells of agreement rang out, and the Free Folk chieftains pounded their chest rhythmically. "We will free all the thralls and take them back to their homes, to live among the civilized as free men and women once more!" More impassioned cries rang out, this time the Riverlander lords included, many of whom had lost their smallfolk to the pillagers. Jon clapped Erron Locke on the shoulder. "And before we leave Pyke, I promise you this, my lord: I will give you Yara Greyjoy's head myself."

* * *

"It was a pretty speech, Your Grace. One I do not doubt that you intend fully to follow through upon," Manderly said to him, as they leaned against the railing of Jon's ship. The sea spray was strong, but there was a freshness here on the ocean that Jon had begun to appreciate, even if his stomach had not. The waves here were more choppy than they had been on the voyage to Bear Island, but they were further out in the open sea here, as they snaked their way south. 

"My father did say that everything before the word but..."

"Ned knew what was what," Manderly said with a chuckle. "But naval warfare is not your domain, Your Grace. It is mine."

"Which is why I named you Master of Ships, Lord Manderly," Jon pointed out. "So tell me how we make my pretty speech come true."

"The Iron Fleet's strength has been severely sapped by the wars, including Daenerys Targaryen's attack on King's Landing. That aside, the Iron Fleet is less a singular fleet than the conglomeration of all the Ironborn captains and their small armadas combined into one. The Iron Fleet is rarely in a singular place at a singular time."

Jon stroked his chin. "In other words, we don't know exactly how many ships to expect on our way to Pyke."

"Precisely, Your Grace. And while this makeshift fleet we have assembled in the meantime has been a small miracle," Manderly said, gazing around at the longships and carracks that had been hastily constructed since the war began, "they will likely not be enough to handle even a quarter of the Iron Fleet in a pitched naval battle. Unless..."

"Lyagar?" Jon queried.

"Your dragon is a weapon we have, and we should not hesitate to use..." Jon, however, immediately had his memory pulled back to a screaming bolt, flying high into the sky above the sea, ripping into Rhaegal, almost as if it was ripping into _him_ -

"... can you ride him, Your Grace?"

"Sorry?" Jon said, shaking himself out of his reverie. His hand traveled to his chest and rubbed around his heart as if he was feeling the pain once again.

"Is Lyagar large enough to ride?"

"No, not for more than a few minutes. They've grown unusually quickly since the Wall fell." Indeed, Lyagar had gone from the size of a medium-sized dog to the size of a pony since the Wall had fallen. Jon had his own suspicions as to why, but he wanted to consult with Sam and Rhaenys about it. "I do not think he will be able to fight with me on his back just yet." Jon sighed. "Honestly, I think Rhaenys might be able to do it. Eliarron's just as big, and Rhaenys is much smaller than I."

Manderly guffawed. "Then mayhaps we have the wrong dragonlord commanding our fleet. I daresay the Princess would be a terrifying sight on dragonback."

"Aye, though I would be loathe to put her in any danger," Jon said.

"She's a good lass, the Princess," Manderly added. "If I may speak plainly, Your Grace -"

"Please do, my lord."

"I and others were a little worried about Princess Rhaenys' appearance at first. Not about the authenticity of her identity, of course - if Princess Arya can vouch for that, then who am I to question? But she has proven to be a good advisor, exemplary amongst highborn ladies. Between Princess Arya and Princess Rhaenys, I suspect you'll be counseled wisely for years to come."

"I'm surprised to hear you place importance on the words of women of our houses, Lord Manderly," Jon commented. "Not all lords do."

"Fools," the portly man declared. "You think it was Wylis from whom Wynafryd and Wylla got their charm and wit? That was all Leona's doing. My own wife, my dear Jeyne, has moved or stayed my hand more often than I can count. Conversely, a shrew of a wife can make any man miserable and ill-counseled. Look at old Robert Baratheon. You can't admit it in front of half these pompous arses, but a man needs a good woman's touch when dealing with some things, else we treat everything like a nail that needs hammering."

"Wise words, my lord. Now, how do we plan on dealing with the Iron Fleet?"

"If the dragon isn't an option yet, then our options truly are limited." Manderly rubbed his many chins in thought. "In truth, the easiest way to deal with a fleet is when it is docked."

"So if we could get onto Pyke unnoticed?" Jon queried.

"Aye, that'll do the trick. Set fire to their ships while they're moored at Lordsport, and we'll be able to sail right up their arsecracks without resistance. The problem is getting onto Pyke, of course, Your Grace."

"I believe you've given me an idea, Lord Manderly," Jon said, gripping the balustrade of the ship and baring a wolfish smile at Wyman.

* * *

Jon pressed his dagger against the Ironborn captain's back as the ship was maneuvered into Lordsport. The man shivered against the cold steel of Jon's blade.

He had ditched his armor and Northman cloaks for simpler wear, like that of an Ironborn corsair, to blend in. The ship's crew had all had their throats slit and their bodies dumped overboard when Jon had taken the stray Ironborn ship, several leagues north of Old Wyk. Only the captain had been left alive. The man stepped onto the dock, Jon dogging his steps, as a harbormaster approached to share words with the captain. Jon did not have his dagger pressed against him anymore, but there was a crossbowman in the crow's nest of the ship with a bolt aimed directly for the Captain's head, and the man knew it. The harbormaster was evidently convinced by whatever the man had to say, as he collected his fee before leaving without an inspection of the deck. 

"Get back onto the ship, and don't make a noise," Jon commanded. The man nodded meekly before taking his leave, but Jon turned back and made a gesture to Tormund, drawing his finger across his neck. Jon could not risk their plan being given away. 

Much of the Iron Fleet was still in port. Lordsport was a squalid little town, but the port was enormous, with longships and carracks of all sizes in the bay. There must have been over a hundred ships - much of the remaining strength of the Iron Fleet - and Jon knew that if they had to engage this armada in the open seas, they would surely have lost. More of his men clambered onshore, armed in discreet ways. They glanced about themselves furtively and headed into town as the sun began to set. The rest of their fleet would wait until nightfall to make their approach to Pyke.

It was a tense half-hour that was spent in the town, with his men congregating in a tavern. The innkeep gave them strange looks, though, upon Jon's questioning, he found the man to be a thrall rather than a native Ironborn. He wondered how many of the people living on the island were held in bondage similarly. Come the morn, if all went to plan, none of them would be.

He had the men knock out the innkeep and the workers, taking the tavern as a base of their own. They tied and gagged the men, tossing them into a storage cellar. Torches were passed around and Jon and his men exited the tavern, heading back towards the port in the cover of the newly fallen night. Jon ran back onto the ship and unlatched the large metal grate that blocked off a storage area in the center. Underneath, he saw a writhing white mass, eager to exit. He reached out with his mind, and Lyagar's consciousness touched him back. The dragon was eager to leave, eager to burn and to feed, and that eagerness seeped into Jon. He unlatched the grate and pulled it aside. 

_Sovegon, Lyagar. Dracarys,_ he thought. The words in his mind sounded not in his voice, which would have butchered the pronunciation, but in Rhaenys' lilting tongue, musical and sweet. Lyagar heeded them anyway.

The dragon shot out from the storage place like shot from a trebuchet, high up into the sky. Jon heard some shouting from the port, as people saw something white and fast streak into the sky. Lyagar went up and up, before unfurling his wing fully and diving back down towards the port with a screech.

The screams began in earnest, now. Jon leaped off the ship and back onto the docks, blowing the horn at his hip. His men swarmed nearby ships, spilling oil onto the deck and lighting it before retreating onto the piers. Lordsport lit up like the sun, as ships caught fire. Bells began to ring in the town, as the alarm went up, but the element of surprise had been won. Confusion reigned at the port, as Greyjoy guardsmen ran about in confusion, wondering who was attacking. None of Jon's men bore sigils or identifying marks, and so the guardsmen let them get close - too close, they learned, as they were hacked to bits by men they thought to be their own ironborn.

Lyagar strafed across the port, fire streaming from his mouth down onto the ships. His destructive capacity was nowhere near Drogon or Rhaegal's, not when Jon had ridden them, but he was still able to set their wooden ships ablaze easily. Men screamed as they were consumed by his flames, though Jon was careful to maintain his connection to Lyagar and direct him to only strafe the port, instead of into the town, where innocents might too be consumed by Lyagar's eager flames.

The flames spread quickly, from mast to mast, until much of the Iron Fleet was in blazes. Screams filled the night as Ironborn sailors burned to death on the blazing timbers of their ships. More horns blew, now coming from the bay, as Jon's fleet began to arrive on the scene. Because of the flames, they were unable to dock their ships, but instead, they rowed out to the shore in rowboats, men coming ashore in groups of ten or twenty. Soon, more of his army poured ashore, and they turned their attention from the port to the town. They slaughtered the Ironborn as they ran in, haphazardly and without organization, to defend their town. The thralls they spared. The town began to burn, too, the thatched roofs catching fire from the stray fire arrows and torches being thrown about. Jon led his men quickly through the streets, mowing down any opposition until they had passed Lordsport completely and were on the road towards Pyke.

There was a rocky plain between Lordsport and Pyke. The castle was imposing, commanding the heights of the island, well above the town, and off into the distance. Between them and the castle were Yara Greyjoy and her army. More and more of Jon's forces landed onshore, adding to his ranks. Jon commanded Lyagar with their mental link to come closer, and the snow-white terror complied. Lyagar landed next to Jon, unfurling his wings and letting out an ear-splitting roar in the direction of Greyjoy's army. Jon's men cheered as the dragon cowed the Ironborn, who began to step backward.

Jon's eyes were glued to Pyke, though. He knew that they were in for a long siege if Yara Greyjoy was allowed to retreat to the castle. This had to be settled here, or it would turn into a costly war of attrition. Jon stepped forward, his voice booming across the plain. "Face me, Greyjoy! Single combat, here and now!"

There was silence from the opposing side, but Jon could make out someone get down from their horse on the other side and take several steps forward. In the torchlight, he caught sight of a gleaming helm, fashioned in the design of a kraken. Jon bared his teeth, as he realized he was looking at Yara. He stepped forward and unsheathed Longclaw, as the two monarchs crossed the plain into the middle, meeting each other. Jon was not well armored for a single fight, though Yara seemed to be, as he drew closer. She wore half-plate and leathers. She would be slowed, he thought, and the Ironborn always relied on speed, not brute force. They were pillagers, not brawlers or knights. His own leathers would not constrain his movement at all.

They did not speak to each other as they drew close, circling one another. Yara unbuckled twin axes from her waist, swinging them around as a test. Longclaw's reach was much greater than her axes', but if she drew too close, he knew he would be at a disadvantage. This battle would be decided in his favor only if he used his advantages of speed and reach.

She struck first, and Jon let her. He needed to get a sense of her movements and patterns, and it quickly revealed itself to him. Yara liked to dance around on the outskirts of Longclaw's reach, before darting in and attacking with her axes close range, unleashing a flurry of swings that hoped to catch him off-guard. However, the problem with her strategy was that she was armored too heavily for it, more heavily than she was used to, no doubt. Her attack quickly became predictable by the second time Jon dodged it, sliding to his left as Yara struggled to adjust to a much faster opponent. Jon poked at her with Longclaw, not inflicting any serious damage, but nicking her here and there - under the armpit, on the cheek, at the hip. He wore her down, slicing away at her defenses, inflicting a dozen small wounds, but no major ones.

However, as he cut her for the umpteenth time, he got overconfident, stepping a little too close, breaking the pattern that he had settled into, and Yara struck. She leaped forward and swung a flurry of blows from her axes. Jon's footing was off, as he had overreached, and though he was able to get out of the way in time, he lost his balance and fell over. Something sharp and hard struck him in the ribs, causing him to spit out blood as he rolled over and up, out of the way of her axes. He gripped his side as a sharp pain stabbed him repeatedly. Longclaw felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in his hands, as he wrapped his left arm around his ribs. He must have fallen on a sharp rock or something similar. He had broken ribs, and breathing was hard. 

"It's your end now, White Wolf," hissed Yara, as she prowled around his line of sight, like a predator searching for an opening against a wounded prey. She found it when he closed his eyes for less than half a second, from the sheer shocks of pain emanating from his ribcage.

Yara leaped at him, swinging both her axes down towards Jon's head. He sidestepped slowly, but in time, and swung Longclaw with one hand. He did not have the strength to find a precise opening in her armor, nor to puncture the mail underneath, so he simply chose to swing at her feet. Whether by luck or fate, Longclaw found the open space between her greave and boot, burying itself in her heel. Yara screamed as her leg gave out, tumbling to the ground. Jon jumped on top of her, gasping as his ribs protested the sudden movement, but drew his knife, bringing it down towards the gap in her helm. Yara knocked it out of his hand, sending it flying, and she punched him in the chest with a mailed fist. Jon roared in pain as the fist came into contact with his cracked rib, and he coughed up blood, spraying it directly in her eyes, blinding her. Jon fumbled around for anything he could grab on to, and found a rock. He screamed as he brought it down onto Yara's helm. The first satisfying crunch told him that he had shattered her nose with the blow - the second and third were accompanied by wet squelches rather than crunches. The Ironborn queen went limp under him; whether unconscious or dead, he did not know, as his pain became unbearable and he rolled off her, gasping as he struggled to draw breath. His vision became blurry, and he heard shouting and yelling and something that seemed like Lyagar's screeching. He undid the bracer on his arm, throwing it aside, and looked at the orange ribbon on his wrist, recalling soft, dark curls, full lips, and a face that seemed carved by the gods.

As he struggled to draw breath, his thoughts became only about her, and how he wished that if he could change one thing before leaving, he would have told her how he felt. The fact that he had fallen in love with Rhaenys was not a secret he wished to die with, holding in his heart. His vision became dark and he thought no more.

* * *

Jon awoke, blinking, to a bed that rocked gently back and forth. He blinked a few more times, the hazy film of sleep disappearing from his eyes as his vision focused on the timbers above his head. By instinct, he sat up, but a sharp pain sent him back down to the bed, gasping.

Bed. Not chains, not irons. He was not a captive - or if he was, not by the Ironborn, at least.

"Stop it, Jon, before you undo all my work," grumbled a familiar voice. Jon craned his neck over towards Sam, who grumbled at him while mashing up some poultice in his mortar.

"What.... what happened?" Jon gasped out.

"Easy, easy. You shattered half your ribs, it'll take some time for it to heal."

'How long have I been out?" Jon asked. He let his head rest on the admittedly comfortable pillow, closing his eyes as he sank into the mattress.

"About a week, give or take." Sam glanced about them, taking in the room. "We're in Pyke. Ser Brienne?"

Brienne rapped on the door once, before stepping in, dressed in her kingsguard raiment. She smiled when she saw Jon. "I'm glad to see you awake, Your Grace."

"I'm glad to be awake," Jon chuckled. 

"Ser Brienne, could you inform the lords and commanders that the King is conscious?" Sam requested.

"Right away, Grand Maester. Your Grace," Brienne said, bowing towards them before exiting the door. He could hear her bark a command to Podrick before she marched away to carry out her orders. 

"You could do far worse for Kingsguard," Sam commented. "Be nice if you actually let them do their job."

"Then what would you do all day, Sam, if not mend my broken bones?" Jon jested. Sam gave him a dark look before cracking up into laughter of his own. "What of the battle?"

"There wasn't much of one after you defeated Yara Greyjoy. The Ironborn tried to flee, but Lyagar cut off their path back to Castle Pyke. Some surrendered, but most died."

"And what of Greyjoy?" Jon asked, rubbing his chest tenderly. "She live?"

"Yes, though barely. Her face is mangled, after what you did to her. Lord Manderly said you hit her with a rock."

"It was all I had on hand at the time," Jon said, protesting. "If I recall, you killed a white walker much the same, only the rock in question happened to be dragonglass."

"Alright, alright, fair point," Sam grumbled. "Now take off that bloody bandage, and let me put this paste over your ribs. It'll cool the pain, enough for you to sit and maybe walk. The lords need to see that you're alright. You have a lot to do, now that you've conquered the Iron Islands."

"All of them?" Jon muttered. "All we did was take Pyke."

"Mmm... all _you_ did was take Pyke. Larence Hornwood, Asher Forrester, and some of the other hothead bannermen of yours, they took all the others."

"In a week?" Jon said, his mouth agape. "Bloody hell."

"All in the name of the Dragon of the North, the Krakenbane," Sam pointed out. "You were already half a god to the Free Folk, and sometimes I wonder if you aren't that to your own bannermen, now, too. These men would all follow you to their deaths, Jon. It's not like the Night's Watch anymore, dealing with traitors and backstabbers who didn't believe you because you were some young bastard boy who didn't know anything. You're King Aemon, the Lightbringer, the White Wolf, and a dozen names besides."

Jon mulled over that for a bit, staring at his hands. Idly, he realized that the orange favor that Rhaenys had given him was no longer on his wrist.

"Sam, there was an orange ribbon-"

"It's in the drawer, the table by your bedside," Sam said, without looking up. "I didn't throw it away. Rhaenys?" he asked.

"Aye, a favor from her. She gave it to me before the Battle Beyond the Wall," Jon said. He looked at his friend, who looked up from his task, their eyes meeting.

Sam said nothing for a few moments before he shrugged and said, "she'd make a good Queen."

Jon groaned and sank his head back into the pillow. "Why does everyone say that?"

"Who else said it?" Sam asked, curiously.

"Sansa."

"Oh. Not sure that's the company I want to be in," Sam said. "Do you care for her?"

"Aren't you disgusted?"

"Well... you're a Targaryen. The name gives you a license to get away with things most other people wouldn't be able to do. Like riding dragons," Sam pointed out.

"Are you jesting about fucking?"

"Oh, am I?"

Jon groaned again, but couldn't help but smile at Sam's cheek. "Yes. I do care for her."

"It was an issue with Daenerys, wasn't it? So why not your aunt, when your half-sister seems to be less of an issue for you?"

"It was never the blood relation with Daenerys," Jon said. "It was... it was the look in her eyes when I told her I was Rhaegar's son, Sam. If it had been disgust, or shock, or love, or anything else, it would have been better. But I saw distrust in her eyes. The first thing she realized was that I had a better claim, not that I was her blood, not that she was no longer the only Targaryen left in the world. It was that her first thought was about her claim."

"Rhaenys seems not to have that issue. In fact, she seems like she wants nothing more than family."

"Aye, family. Not sure if this is what she had in mind, though."

"Gods, you both are blind. I think everyone else can see it, but you two can't. You're pining for each other. You think your absences have gone unnoticed? You think nobody on the council sees when you two stare into each other's eyes like lost puppies? Hells, Lord Tyrion tried to start a wager pool with Arya-"

"What?"

"Never you mind all that. If you care for her, be with her. It's not even a politically unsound move. Your bannermen here in the North are too loyal. They might grumble, but they won't do much else. The rest of the realm will see you as even more Targaryen than before. And when it comes down to it, when the remaining kingdoms have to choose... do you think they would rather follow King Aemon and Queen Rhaenys, or King Aegon and Queen Daenerys? You might even be able to tear Dorne in half with Rhaenys. By their laws, she has a better claim than you or Aegon."

The politics of it had never mattered to Jon, though he could hear Rhaenys scolding him for not thinking it through. His concern had always been her safety.

"I'm not sure if she wants it," Jon said quietly. "There have been moments where I feel like she was on the verge of telling me... but something holds her back. And something holds me back, too. What if she ends up like Ygritte? What if she ends up-" he stopped, choking on the sentence he was about to say.

Sam sighed. "Jon, if you think Rhaenys is anything like Daenerys, I can't help you."

"That's not what I'm saying, Sam," Jon said, raising his voice. "Every woman who has the misfortune to be with me dies. And not peacefully in their beds. It's a violent life I live, running from one battle to another. It's not something I want for her."

"You don't get to decide what she wants, though. You could always impose your will, marry her off to someone, somewhere where she would be safe. But you'd never change her heart, not any more than I can change yours," Sam counseled. "Life hasn't given us many chances at happiness, Jon. Take it from someone happily married - if you get your chance, seize it and run with it. Life is shit all the same, so if you don't grab what little joy it gives you, it'll be a slog from beginning to end." Sam finished applying the paste and stood. "You've got a lot to do. I'll come back with food and we can run down the list of tasks if it pleases you."

Jon nodded once. "Thanks, Sam. For everything." 

His friend gave him a soft smile.

* * *

"Your Grace, Lord Rodrik Harlaw." Brienne announced the man stepping in front of him. Jon leaned forward as much as his ribs would allow, as he held court in Pyke.

"Lord Harlaw," Jon said. He racked his mind, searching through every conversation he'd ever had with Theon, about the houses and the lords of the Iron Islands. Rodrik was not a reaver, but a reader - a perfect choice for a new, reformed Iron Islands, with one problem.

He was Yara's uncle, brother to Yara's late lady mother.

"Your Grace, I have come, chosen by the Ironborn to speak on their behalf." The old man knelt "We offer to you the Iron Islands, and our recognization of your claim as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I am surprised that you do not ask for the life of your niece."

Harlaw's gaze shifted around the room. "I speak for the Ironborn, and that would be a personal request, Your Grace, one I do not think I would be granted. Yara made her choice when she chose to continue her vendetta against you. Believe me, it was not a popular choice in the Iron Islands."

"Why?"

"Well, not because of you, Your Grace. But the reavers thought there was better loot to be had in the festering corpse of the Reach and the Westerlands than in the frozen wastes of the North. Even if they aren't all that frozen, anymore. Is it true? Has the land beyond the Wall thawed?"

"It is," Jon said, nodding his head. "And there is no more Wall, my lord. I do not know if word has reached the Iron Islands yet, but my brother, Lord Brandon, brought down the Wall. I rule the united Northern Kingdom now."

"Something yet to be written down in the books, Your Grace," Harlaw said with a wry smile. 

"I expect you'll know a lot of the past, Lord Harlaw. Tell me, how have the Iron Islands operated in the past?"

"By reaving and pillaging, Your Grace. The Old Way," Rodrik answered.

"The way of savages!" cried out some Northern lord, from among those gathered. There were murmurs of assent rumbling around the room.

"My adopted father, Lord Eddard Stark, taught me the Old Way of the First Men, Lord Rodrik. He taught me that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. My true father, Rhaegar Targaryen, was descended from Aegon the Conqueror. It was Aegon who put an end to your Old Way, who forbade the taking of thralls and slaves, who forbade reaving. Will the Iron Islands abide by this?"

"Do you intend to uphold your forefather's edicts?"

"I do, Lord Rodrik. And I require a Lord of the Iron Islands who will uphold those edicts. I will stamp out your Old Way, though not your Drowned God. You keep your faith. You keep your iron, and you trade with the other kingdoms. You will no longer reave nor pillage in Westeros. For my part, I will ensure that the Iron Islands have trade enough to keep from dying."

"And how?" Rodrik challenged. "That is the eternal struggle of the Ironborn. We reave not only because our culture demands it, but because we must. It sustains us in hard times. The Iron Islands are not bounteous."

"My sister, Princess Arya of the North, circumnavigated the world. She found additional continents to the West, in the Sunset Sea, before she sailed to Asshai in the far East." Jon said. A hush filled the hall, so profound that Jon could have heard a pin drop.

"Oh my. That is curious, indeed," Rodrik said. "Continents, you say?"

"Continents, my lord. With civilizations. I am sure the meaning of my words is clear to you."

Realization was dawning on Lord Harlaw's face. If trading was ever established with the continents to the West, the Iron Islands would be the immediate beneficiaries. They would become the great gates of trade, and their sea captains would be even better positioned than the Reachmen or the Dornish to capitalize on whatever exotic goods would come from the West. Even more so, if there was a viable route, they could even engage in trade with the Far East. Lordship of the Iron Islands was no longer a hardscrabble gift, but a treasure waiting to be unearthed.

"So I ask you again, Lord Harlaw. Do the Iron Islands agree to my terms? Or shall I rain fire and blood down upon you?"

Harlaw shivered, gazing out of the stone window. "I saw enough of your dragon, Your Grace. I'd rather not have another one beat its wings above my shores. I won't be a second Harren Hoare. The Iron Islands shall abide."

"And Yara Greyjoy will face her sentence at my hands," Jon clarified. "For the crimes committed against the North, for the sacking of Deepwood Motte and Bear Island, and for the destruction her pillagers wreaked up the Milkwater. House Greyjoy will face its end today, and I will give Pyke to another, more worthy lord."

Lord Rodrik cleared his throat, his gaze shifting around the room. "Your Grace... Yara Greyjoy is not the last Greyjoy."

Jon stood, even though his ribs protested against it. "Explain yourself, my lord. Theon died in defense of Winterfell, in defense of my brother Brandon. His brothers were killed in the rebellion. Euron died in King's Landing, Victarion Greyjoy has not been seen or heard from in years, and Aeron Greyjoy has renounced his claims as a priest in your religion."

"All of what you say is true, Your Grace," Rodrik said. "But in my court, there is a boy, no more than eight namedays in age. His mother was the daughter of a sea captain, but his father... well, I think you knew his father." Rodrik made a motion from behind, and a boy stepped out of the shadows. He was a child, lean, dark-faced, and with hair as black as coal. The features did not stand out to him, not until the boy's face curled into a sneering visage that Jon had been all too familiar with in his youth.

"Your Grace." Rodrik stood behind the boy, placing both his hands on his shoulders. "This is my great-nephew Balon Pyke, natural-born son of Theon Greyjoy."


	25. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys hammers out a deal with the Eyrie.
> 
> Also... uh.... well, read on.

**Rhaenys - VII**

**Twelfth Moon, 306 A.C.**

Rhaenys groaned as soon as she arrived back in her guest quarters.

The rooms were spacious, with large shuttered doors that opened up to a balcony with a portico. The balustrade divided air from ground, as Rhaenys slipped off her shoes and stepped barefoot across the marble floor. Torchlight flickered at the entrance to the balcony, and she glided past it, her eyes adjusting to the starry sky here in the Eyrie. Beneath her were mountains and vales, the Eyrie itself perched atop one of the tallest mountains in the Vale of Arryn. It was a mighty castle, formidable and strong, but a prideful part of her knew that it was no insurmountable challenge to someone like her or Jon. They were dragons, and dragons could fly above the mountains with ease.

She heard the beating of wings above her as Eliarron flew off, no doubt in search of a delicious mountain goat as prey. The ease with which the dragon flew now should have surprised her, but the rate of growth for both her dragon as well as Lyagar had increased ever since the Battle Beyond the Wall. They were larger now, able to do many things themselves, yet they possessed none of the fearsome growing pains that she might have expected to come along with dragons.

She poured herself a goblet of wine and sipped from it, collapsing onto a chaise in the balcony. "Enjoying yourself, are you?" Arya's irritated voice came from behind. "Done with negotiations?"

"For the day," Rhaenys answered back. "Seven hells, I think I would rather be off conquering Pyke than doing this. Speaking of-"

"A raven arrived from Winterfell," Arya said. "Bran said Jon subjugated the islands. He named Lord Rodrik Harlaw the Lord of the Iron Islands in his name, and he's bringing back a ward from Pyke. Also... Sam sent a raven, separately, to Bran. It seems that our king saw fit to have his ribs shattered in a duel with Yara Greyjoy."

"What?" Rhaenys screeched. Arya rolled her eyes, which settled her nerves some, but her temper flared up nonetheless. "What was Jon thinking? He could have gotten himself killed, challenging her to single combat-"

"You're angry because he could have died without you confessing your pent-up love for him," Arya drawled. "If only there was a way for you to get around that..."

"Oh stuff it, Arya. Don't act like you don't write furtive love letters to Gendry Baratheon when no one's looking," Rhaenys retorted. Arya's face went red, as if she had no inkling that she would be noticed. "You might be a legendary assassin, but I'm your friend. I can see through you."

"They-they aren't love letters-" Arya spluttered.

"Of course they aren't, because love is for ladies and you're no lady," Rhaenys said, rolling her eyes. "Now let's drop the pretense. We're two lovesick women, pining for men we're too afraid to tell we love them."

"You said it, not me," Arya muttered, emerging from their shared quarters and sitting on the balcony. "I'm glad this room doesn't have any security flaws. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to bare it all out here on this wonderful ladies' retreat."

"WIth a side of negotiating with one of the most infuriating lords in the history of Westeros. How are you kin with this one?" Rhaenys asked.

Arya shrugged. "Beats me. Probably helps that I had Eddard Stark raising me. The poor boy only had Lysa Arryn, and she was madder than a sack of cats. What did he demand this time?"

"A marriage," Rhaenys snorted. "With me."

"And?"

"And, luckily, Lord Royce was present to indicate why that might not be so wise, given that I am roughly eight years that boy's senior. Not to mention that I believe he wants to put a Royce girl in the Eyrie." Rhaenys rubbed her temples and took another sip of wine. "He's not that terrible, your cousin. Just green. And he stares at my breasts too long. I would much prefer to negotiate directly with Lord Royce, but I imagine the protector of the Vale wants his ward to learn something of ruling."

"Are we any closer to an agreement?"

"You would know if you attended the meetings," Rhaenys said irritably. "Yes, I believe so. Lord Royce is aware of the danger, at least. He seems to respect Jon."

"What concessions do the Valemen want?" Arya asked. 

"Gods, Arya, just come to the meetings. They want a royal dispensation for certain excise taxes and import duties in Gulltown. They also want a guaranteed Valeman seat on the King's Council at any given time. I can budge on the finances, which I already discussed with Lord Tyrion - Gulltown is being far outpaced by White Harbor, and even Hardhome in the old Free Folk lands is threatening the northern trade with the Braavosi and the Ibbenese. They'll need it for survival. I'm just glad they haven't asked anything in recompense for Hardyng's death in the North. We returned his bones, and apparently that was enough."

"Nobody cares about Hardyng, not when there's a healthy Arryn in the Eyrie. The moment he spawns heirs, the less anyone will care. If they did, he would have brought more to Sansa's army than hedge knights and smallfolk. The guaranteed seat is a hard sell," Arya said, pouring a goblet for herself. "Not to mention that it narrows the list of capable candidates for any given seat if we have to restrict ourselves only to the Vale."

"Precisely. I can compromise - Lord Royce is a formidable warrior, on all counts, and Jon has yet to name a Master of War. We can grant the one seat with no guarantees in the future." She thought back to her history books, and how Visenya had won over the Eyrie with nothing more than a flight on dragonback for a little boy. If only her situation was that easy...

Then a thought struck her.

"What if we allow the Vale the use of royal privilege?" she exclaimed.

"What, you mean like Dorne?" Arya asked. "It's just a bloody title."

"Exactly!" Rhaenys said, excitedly. "It's a bloody title. It's nothing tangible, but it offers the bearer a sense of self-importance." At the same time, she felt a twang of guilt for her own maternal blood, who had fought so hard and had earned their royal privilege. It felt cheap to give that up to some boy who had done nothing but dig his heels in when it came to bending the knee. But it was not the time for misplaced pride right now. She could hardly give Robin Arryn a ride on Eliarron, who was nowhere near Vhagar's size. This was the least costly option if it worked. If it didn't, it might reveal how open the North was to grant concessions, and then it would be open season in every negotiation. 

Arya nodded. "You're the negotiator, Rhaenys. Are you ready to resume your lessons?"

Rhaenys groaned. "My feet hurt."

"Lazy," Arya clucked. "Up." The Stark woman vanished for a few moments and came back, her Needle strapped to her belt, and with Dark Sister in her hands. "Come on, Rhae. If Jon is going to be remiss about this, I'm teaching you."

Rhaenys got up, even though her body protested it. Her will to learn had only grown since the battle when she had almost died in that attack from Glover's men. Jon had offered to train her, but he was gentle. He held back.

"I'm not going to," Arya had promised, when they first took up their swords on the road to the Vale. Since then, every day had ended with a training session. She was grateful for the weather growing colder day by day since she could cover up her bruises and welts with long winter dresses.

They took up stances inside the room - Arya with her fluid one-handed stance, Rhaenys with her two-handed grip. Dark Sister wasn't a bastard sword, but for her, it may as well have been. Arya gave her pointers - two-handed stances required more focus on balance since there wasn't a free arm for the warrior to use when lunging and counterstriking to maintain their footing. Rhaenys still was bested by Arya every single time, but she noticed that as the weeks had passed, she had lasted longer in every training duel.

Arya did not train her as she thought. There was little in the way of theory or learning - Arya seemed to believe that repeated failure and attempt to correct said failure was the best teacher. Occasionally she threw out snappy pieces of knowledge - phrased in an odd, un-Arya-like way that made Rhaenys suspect the source was originally someone else - that helped, but it was hard work otherwise. She did not teach only technique, but dirty tricks - "no such thing as dirty or cheating in a fight," Arya insisted - and Rhaenys even found herself putting them more to use.

After they finished their session, Rhaenys wiped sweat off her brow, and Arya gave her a small congratulatory smile that made Rhaenys scowl, since she had been beaten once again. "You're getting better, Rhae, you really are. You ought to duel Jon. If he goes easy on you, you'll knock him flat on his arse in the training yard.

That thought did bring a smile to her lips.

* * *

"Well, Your Graces, this is a surprise," Lord Royce said with a smile, as he took his seat at the table. "Princess Rhaenys did not inform us that you would join today, Princess Arya."

"I prefer to leave negotiating to the negotiators, Lord Protector," Arya said with a cat-like smile. "You know well my expertise lies elsewhere." Arya's gaze traveled to Robin, who was sitting back in his chair with an expression like the cat that got the canary, his eyes trained on Rhaenys' bosom. Arya shot Rhaenys a glance filled with daggers.

"Have you given thought to my proposal, Your Grace?" King Robin blurted out, his expression eager. He leaned forward in his seat.

Rhaenys gave him a smile when she'd much rather shove Dark Sister into his heart. "I was under the impression that Lord Royce had illustrated why that may not be the wisest of proposals, Your Grace. You are young, healthy, and capable of siring many heirs, but I am older-

"Not that much older," the boy remarked lecherously. 

"-and I cannot consent now, not without King Aemon's approval. He is, after all, head of my House," Rhaenys finished, the smile still present on her face, though it was more of a strain now. 

"And yet he sends you to negotiate on his behalf, showing that he trusts your judgment," the King of Mountain and Vale said. "I think King Aemon would agree to any decision you make in your wisdom."

Rhaenys grit her teeth even as she maintained an easy smile. _Jon would burn down the Eyrie and everyone in it if he knew how you spoke to me, cur._ "I'm pleased that you think so highly of my wisdom, Your Grace, but I am simply an emissary."

"I-"

Arya cleared her throat, interrupting her cousin. "Cousin Robin, have I ever told you the story of Meryn Trant?"

"...No, I don't believe you have," Robin said, slowly, staring at her with a confused look.

"Trant was one of the Kingsguard - one of the Lannister dogs. He killed the man who taught me how to wield this." Arya unbuckled her sword and placed it, still in the scabbard, on the table. "My brother, the King, gave this to me when we separated at Winterfell when King Robert came to make my father his Hand. It was this sword I was taught with. Later, I learned from Sansa that Meryn Trant beat her in front of the court at Joffrey's command."

"Regrettable, Your Grace," Lord Royce clucked. "I pled with your aunt to intervene, to pledge her men to Robb Stark, when I heard of this."

"And I thank you for your support, Lord Royce," Arya said. "Years later, when I was in Braavos, I saw him. He was there on behalf of the crown, to help with negotiations with the Iron Bank. Ser Meryn, you see, had a reputation for preferring his girls young. When he was in a brothel, he took three of them. He beat them, and sent two out of the room. And when he beat the third, she pulled off her face and put out his eyes. Then, she cut his throat and left him to die in a puddle of his own blood and piss." Arya leaned forward gently. "I never liked men like Meryn Trant."

"Arya..." Rhaenys said warningly. She appreciated her friend coming to her defense - and in such grisly detail - but this could sour things. She could deal with a lecherous boy if it meant securing his swords for Jon's armies.

"Lord Royce," Arya continued, not heeding Rhaenys. "Do you remember what King Aemon did to the last man who put his hands on one of his sisters?"

Even Royce seemed taken aback. "Yes, Your Grace. You refer, of course, to the Bolton bastard? He... he beat the man severely in Winterfell. Later, he was found fed to his own dogs."

"W-what was the point of this story?" stammered Robin. He tilted in his seat, away from Arya's direction, watching her with a fearful look as if she'd snap across the table and bite him.

"Only to illustrate how Princess Rhaenys' family has treated those who are cavalier with women, particularly their own women, in the past. Make no mistake, _cousin._ The Princess is as much my family as she is King Aemon's."

If the threat served to terrify but confuse Robin, Lord Royce seemed to get the point immediately. "Ah... Your Grace," he said, speaking to Robin. "As I'm sure Princess Rhaenys would agree, there are far more suitable matches for you." He cast a sympathetic glance at Rhaenys. "Women from families with a history of bearing healthy babes, which is something deeply vital to the future of House Arryn, of course."

Rhaenys gripped the edge of her seat tightly. _He is insulting my mother_ , she thought... but Royce cast her yet another apologetic glance, and she understood. As brutal as the implications of his words were, Royce was trying to do her a favor. Rhaenys bit back her pride and played along. "Yes, Your Grace. My mother, unfortunately, had a tough time bearing babes. Having Aegon nearly killed her, which is likely why my father sought Lady Lyanna's hand in the first place. My grandmother, Queen Rhaella, also had a difficult time in the birthing bed, as did my aunt Daenerys. Fertility is not a hallmark of House Targaryen, Your Grace."

"As it is, the King has recently conquered the Iron Islands. The Harlaws and the others have bent the knee," Arya added. "If King Robin desires a wife, there will be many available from the North, the Riverlands, and the Iron Islands, all for him to choose from. That is to say nothing of the ladies of other lands we add to our domain."

Robin seemed to accept this, and the negotiations continued on without him glancing once more in Rhaenys' direction. Underneath the table, she squeezed Arya's knee in thanks.

* * *

After Robin had retired, bending the knee informally and surrendering his crown - without Rhaenys needing to offer the royal privilege as a bone - the two met with Lord Royce separately. The man poured all of them a goblet of wine before sighing.

"The boy's a horrid lecher," he said. "If his capabilities weren't weak, he would have fathered many bastards by now, I presume. The scullery maids are afraid of him, even."

"There's a convenient door you have for problems like him," Arya commented offhandedly. "I'd be interested to see if falcons fly."

"Arya," Rhaenys said exasperatedly. "Lord Royce, for your ward's sake, I will not speak another word of this to His Grace. But you cannot honestly expect to marry this boy to your daughter Ysilla. I do not presume to tell you how to run your household, but I hear from the King about his respect for you. He paints a picture that I cannot reconcile with a man who'd give his daughter to... this."

"He reminds me of Joffrey," Arya said. "A dangerous person to remind me of."

Royce sighed. "I apologize, first, Princess Rhaenys, if I caused any offense when I spoke of your mother. I did not plan to besmirch Queen Elia's memory, but I'm afraid there weren't many ways of ending that conversation with finality. And as for Ysilla... well. Ysilla knows how to handle a _boy_ like him. He is a lecher, but I've known many like him. He has the wandering hands and eyes, but not Joffrey's cruelty to match," he said heatedly. "As it stands, I received the King's letter about the return of Daenerys Targaryen. Is this true?"

"I saw it with my own eyes, my lord," Rhaenys said gravely.

"A horrible business, what happened at King's Landing. Not something I think I will forget until my dying day. I can say without shame after having seen what her dragon did to that city, it gave me a fright to see your dragon flying here in the Vale. Even if he is not so large as Daenerys Targaryen's dragon. But why not proclaim this to the realms?"

"You can guess why, Lord Royce. You're a sharp man. Can you tell me honestly that there aren't factions within the Vale that would attempt to negotiate a settlement with Aegon and Daenerys in advance?" Yohn Royce's silence spoke volumes. "Are there are houses here with no designs on the Eyrie? We would rather the Vale belong to Arryn, in the safe custody of Royce, as it should be - not in some other house's hands, given to them by order of Daenerys Targaryen. The same applies to all the other realms, my lord," Rhaenys said. "With them, we can afford to tell no one; here, at least, King Aemon had you to trust in. Rest assured that the King will know that you honored that trust."

"Of course, Your Grace," Royce said, inclining his head. "I understand that he cannot give a precise answer, as he is not here, and that I do not think he has empowered you to speak in his name, at least in matters of council...

"But you are under _very_ strong consideration for Master of War, my Lord," Rhaenys finished with a smile. "It was a pleasure conducting negotiations. Gods willing, we will have the pleasure of your presence with the King on the coming campaigns."

* * *

The march back from the Eyrie was uneventful, though they received a raven from Seagard, that Jon had landed in the Riverlands and that he would meet them at Harrenhal, as originally planned. The trip there passed faster than Rhaenys could have expected, and though it was uneventful, once they crossed the Trident at Harroway's Town, Rhaenys saw the destruction in the southern Riverlands. The fertile country had been ravaged by war. Whole villages lay empty and deserted, they would occasionally come across bodies on the roads. 

They arrived at Harrenhal the night of the last day of that year. The mood in the King's camp was festive - soldiers and lords alike were buoyant by their recent victory, and they hailed Rhaenys and Arya upon their return as if they had conquered the Vale, not as if they had negotiated its return to the realm. Jon was meeting with Sam, Lord Manderly, and Tyrion in the ruined great hall of the keep, when Ser Brienne and Podrick announced their arrival. The council stood, and Jon gave them a stiff, formal thanks, though his grey eyes were solely trained on her. His gaze, unlike that of Lord Arryn's, was much more tolerable.

Jon dismissed everyone, and as Rhaenys turned to go, he stopped her. Arya gave her a furtive smile as she shut the door behind her, leaving just the two of them and a roaring fire in the ruined keep.

Rhaenys smiled at him, her happiness at having seen him again for the first time in two moon turns settling in. He seemed weak, as if he had lost a little weight, and she realized he favored one side over the other.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, touching his chest gingerly. "The message was vague, but-"

"I'm alive," Jon said with a soft chuckle. "Despite Yara Greyjoy's attempts to the contrary."

"I hope you had her head for it," Rhaenys growled. "She deserves it for less."

"Not yet," Jon said. "There's a mess with the Iron Islands we have to sort out, but there'll be time for that later."

"I expect you'll want to know everything that went on in the Eyrie," Rhaenys said, sitting on the table. Jon pulled up a chair next to her, though he continued to stand, wincing if he moved too quickly.

"I do. We have a lot to talk about, Rhaenys. I'm glad to see you again," he said with a soft smile.

"Well-"

"We can talk about the Eyrie later. There's something else we need to talk about." Jon took a deep breath, and when his iron-grey eyes met hers, her heart began to thump against her chest. 

"O-of course," she stammered out. Her nervousness was intensified by Jon's melancholy. _Oh, Gods, this is it, he's going to tell me I've been misreading it all-_

"You aren't imagining things," he said slowly. "You weren't imagining them in the crypts, either."

Rhaenys' mind went wholly blank as her emotions overrode all her rational thought.

"It took me a while to realize we were both just bloody dancing around the issue - or at least, I think we are. But when I was dying out there on that godsforsaken island, blood filling my mouth, the only thing I could think of was this." He raised his hand, showing her the orange ribbon she had tied around his wrist. "When I came to consciousness in a bed a sennight later, the first thing I thought of was this. I didn't want to die without speaking my mind to you."

"Jon-"

"If we do this, Rhae, you need to know. I'm shit luck. I'm as like to get you killed as anything else." His eyes were filled with immeasurable pain. "I can do anything, but I can't see you get hurt."

Rhaenys squeezed her eyes shut as her feelings took hold. "Jon, please shut up." Pindrop silence filled the room, and she opened her eyes, staring him in his stupidly comely face and his sad, pitiful grey eyes. "You do not get to tell me that you had a dying realization and expect me to think I can keep my heart to myself when I could die at any moment. When we could all die at any moment, Jon. Our lives could end tonight. They could end tomorrow. I will not die with what I have to say still in my heart. I won't let my fear rule me, and you shouldn't either."

"I don't know how not to," he croaked. "What if I lose you?"

She got off the table and stepped towards him. "You'll lose me one day, no matter what. Whether I die an old crone or whether I die the next moment. How are we to spend all the time that remains? Afraid?" A dawning realization hit her. "It- it never was that I'm your sister, was it?"

"No," Jon said. "No, my blood calls out for you. If anything-"

"The pull is stronger," Rhaenys finished. "It sounds perverse, but..."

"It also makes sense. Old Valyria runs through our blood. We are magic. It speaks to one another. That wasn't what pushed me away. It was always the fear I'd lose you."

The two stood now, staring at each other, their faces only a little apart. Jon's hand found hers, intertwining in it as it had on that lonely turret in Winterfell. "Arya sent me ravens," he whispered. "She told me Lord Arryn was impolite."

"Is that the word she used?" Rhaenys whispered back. 

"No. Remember that lecture you gave me on marrying you off to secure some lord's allegiance to my cause?"

Rhaenys smirked. "Are you going to call me a hypocrite?"

"I'm just happy you see it my way. I'm not wedding you off."

"But not because of some sense of chivalry," she challenged. "Say it."

"Because I don't want you to be someone else's," he said, hoarse and rough, in that sweet Northern brogue that she had grown to love so much. His voice sent a thrill down her back, and she pressed closer to him.

"Why?" she whispered into his ear. 

"Because I want you to be mine," he hissed back. His grey eyes flashed with fire, and it was the spark to set them both ablaze. 

She smiled at him fiendishly, all her previous worry gone. He wanted her, and she wanted him. All she had feared, all she had dreaded to see in his eyes - disgust, revulsion, pain, rage, horror - none of it was there. There were only fire and the rush of both their hearts, love, and lust combined into the strongest pull of want she had ever felt in her life. 

"Then come and claim me," she whispered.

For the next half hour, she became convinced that Jon's injury was faked, for he showed no signs of pain or soreness as he pushed himself onto her. She whimpered needfully at the force, wrapping her legs around his waist as he perched her atop the table, clearing off all the wargame pieces and maps that had been laid on top of it. Whatever slight chill had happened to be in the room seemed to disappear, even as Jon crashed his lips onto hers, claiming them with a sweetness and a possessiveness that sent her mind reeling. One of her hands found its way into his tangled curls, nesting comfortably in the mess of his hair, and the other traveled across his broad chest, feeling at every rugged inch of his skin, and his scars - the ones she had only heard of from others, never seen. When their mouths parted only to meet again, their tongues met in the middle, like two jousters vying for dominance, only that they each surrendered, in turn, to give the other's tongue access to their mouths and explore every bit. Every touch sent shockwaves down Rhaenys' skin and to her core, where a hot pool of desire raged and spread to her thighs. Jon tugged at her shirt and her breeches impatiently. When she reached to do the same, he stopped her. For a moment, a stab of fear penetrated into her heart, but Jon's eyes were still ablaze with desire.

"You'll see my scars," he said, roughly. _Does he think I'll be revolted? They're part of him, and I want **all of him.**_

"I don't care," she breathed heavily, pressing a kiss to him and pulling the shirt over his chest. She gasped when she saw his scars, near as red as if they had just been cut into him, all over his chest and abdomen. She traced a finger over the one that was directly over his heart, her eyes meeting with his.

"They almost stole you from me, the **_j'aspos_** ," she seethed. "Tell me you killed them."

"I hung them myself," Jon whispered back roughly.

"Good," she replied, kissing the first scar, then trailing kisses up his neck and beard line, nibbling at his ear. "Not even the gods could deny me this, now." He made quick work of her blouse, her breasts spilling loose from the fabric and into his hands. His touch was demanding, needy, but not harsh, and his lips only broke from her mouth so they could trail down her olive skin. Rhaenys let out a little sigh of emptiness until his tongue lightly grazed her nipple, perk against the slight chill of the room. She shivered and moaned at the same time, her body shuddering at spark of pleasure he felt. Jon was attentive and torturous, applying just the right amount of pressure and attention before backing away, until she found herself arching her back and forcing his head towards her breasts. After having tortured her sufficiently, his lips continued to trail downwards as his fingers undid the last of the laces on her breeches, pulling them down and away. She gasped as she was fully exposed to him, but he seemed not to give a damn, his mouth diving hungrily between her legs.

"What're you- oh!"

If she thought that his kisses were enough to send her spiraling, then his mouth in between her legs obliterated all sense of self that she had ever had. There was nothing but pure pleasure radiating from her core, as he lapped away at her, alternating the shape of his tongue and the direction of his movements. She was wet, soaking, no doubt drenching his face in her juices, but any sense of shame or fear had long since abandoned her. His tongue and mouth found something down there, something that when he flicked, made her writhe and moan his name.

She cried his name as he ministered to her patiently, her pleasure building and building and building until she felt she could bear it no longer. But as it grew too much, as she was about to release, he pulled away sharply, and she made a keening noise of want. 

"Hush, love," he said, pressing a kiss to her lips. She lapped up her own juices from his face hungrily, the taste of herself on his lips driving her delirious with desire. He slipped off his breeches and she found her hand searching for his manhood, taking it in her hands and stroking it gently. 

"Are you a maid?" he asked her. She nodded, grinning at him sheepishly.

"Does that please you?" For a moment, she was worried that he thought her-

Before she could finish the thought, he pressed another kiss to her lips, but this one gentle rather than overpowering. It was a quick change in pace, something that threw her for a spin, but he pressed his sweat-drenched forehead to her own. "Just needed to know if I had to be gentle, love." She shivered every time he said that word - 'love' - in his Northern accent, the 'o' dragging longer than it had any business doing. "I promise I'll make it as painless as I can."

"I don't care. It's all yours, just take it," she breathed into his ear. She felt something hard and large press against her slick entry, not pushing hard, but enough to make her gasp. The head slipped in, stretching her far beyond what she thought was possible, and it was indeed painful. But Jon was gentle, sweet, whispering all kinds of mindless loving words into her ears, making her forget the sting as he slipped further and further into her. After a moment, she felt as if something almost popped, and he was in her, all the way to the hilt, making her gasp out in pain and her eyes water. 

"I know, Rhae, I know," he crooned into her ear. "I'll be slow. Promise you'll tell me when it hurts."

"Promise, she whispered, raggedly, trying to adjust to him inside her. She felt near split in two, but the feeling vanished quickly being replaced by a kind of satisfaction and fullness she had never known before. Jon evidently sensed her growing comfort, as he began to rock back and forth inside her gently, moving in and out in the slowest of motions. It hurt far less, and soon it ceased to hurt at all. It was replaced by glorious friction that sent shockwaves of pleasure through her every time he pulled and pushed.

He whispered her name raggedly into her ear as his strokes became deeper and faster. The table underneath her rocked as she wrapped her arms around Jon, kissing him furiously while he made love to her. His breathing and hers became more irregular, and she could feel that familiar pleasure building up again, the one from when he'd used his mouth down there in that way she'd loved so much. But from his erraticness, she could tell his pleasure was upon them soon, too.

She pulled her mouth away from his and held his head in her hands, palms pressed to his cheeks.

"Am I your Queen?" she demanded, though she already knew the answer. After this, he was hers, and she was his, for all their days. There was no coming back from this.

"Now and always," he growled. That was enough for her. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him in her deeper and deeper than before as their lips and tongues tangled above. His last few strokes were not rhythmic at all, uncontrolled, and yet they hit so deep that she felt her pleasure crest over and consume her, lapping over her like waves on a Dornish beach. She whimpered his name and he breathed hers as she felt him pulse inside, spilling his seed in her, as the two collapsed onto the table, breathing heavily. Jon pushed a stray curl out of his face and she giggled at the sight, before his bashful smile made her laugh fully. Gone was the dragonwolf who'd just taken her to the stars, replaced by a shy young man whose smile made her heart skip a beat.

"Am I still your Queen?" she asked of him, half-jokingly. A warm, satisfied feeling settled all over her, emanating from her belly. 

"Where's the nearest Godswood?" he retorted. She laughed at his words until she realized he was serious. 

"Jon, we can't just-" she began, her mouth dropping.

"Why not?" he said petulantly. "I'm bloody king, and this job has been nothing but one responsibility after another. I want the perks, and I want them now." His demand made her giggle again, and she pressed her lips to his in an eager kiss. "That's the benefit of being a Northern heathen. Our gods are simple, as are the ceremonies."

"So you'll wed me right after you bed me, is that it?" But in truth, the propriety of it all did not matter. He was her fate, she was his. They only had to formalize it somewhere, and she rather preferred one of the living trees of the First Men over the empty septs of the Seven.

"I don't see a bed," Jon murmured facetiously, glancing around him in the room. Rhaenys slapped his shoulder affectionately and gasped as he pulled out of her. "Let's get dressed and see about that godswood." Before Rhaenys could open her mouth to argue (though she really wasn't going to, not with any seriousness), Jon gave her a stern look. "This isn't a negotiation, Princess." His serious tone caused her to giggle again, and his face shifted into a smile she froze a mental image of, for her to cherish.

When they were able to pull themselves together to some degree of normalcy, they exited the great hall only to find Arya and Tyrion waiting with their backs to the wall in the corridor. Tyrion glanced at Jon with something akin to annoyance in his eyes, before handing a sack of something that sounded awfully like coins to Arya.

"A deal's a deal, Princess," he said with a sigh. 

"Pleasure doing business, Lord Tyrion," Arya said with a smirk.

"Wha- you-" Jon stammered, his eyes frantically darting back and forth between his advisor and his sister. "Did you-"

"Don't worry about it, Jon," Arya said. "So... did I hear something about a godswood?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. The smutty Targ-cest that was promised. :D But also, the culmination of a 100k word path leading Jon and Rhaenys to one another. I think we've danced around their clear attraction to one another for long enough, right? So where better to consummate it all than Harrenhal, where their shared father saw Jon's mother for the first time? Where better to unite Elia and Lyanna's blood?
> 
> I know I said Robin seemed like a good king, but I did leave myself that easy out by writing "seem" right? Not that Robin is necessarily incompetent, he's just horny and kind of slimy and needs to be put in horny jail. And Lord Royce's governance is what gives stability - much like Jon Arryn's Handship with King Robert, and much like with many great monarchs who were actually weirdos but had good ministers, throughout history.
> 
> I mean, there's zero chance a dude who was breastfeeding till he turned 12 has no issues xD
> 
> As a final note, this will probably be the last chapter for a week or so. Got a lot of stuff coming up ahead, but after that I'll be back to writing. Just wanted to leave a little goodbye present before I vanish for a week :)


	26. The Laughing Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is devoted more to the Tyrion-Jon buddy relationship.

**Tyrion - III**

Tyrion picked at the whorls in the table, eyeing the young monarch and his beloved carefully. The two had the decency to look bashful, though from the sweet side-glances they shot one another, Tyrion knew that they bore no shame for what they did. And Tyrion did not judge them, not after the exploits of his own family. The thought of Jaime still caused an ache in his heart, but he banished that cloudiness instantly, choosing instead to portray a stern demeanor.

Arya, seated to his left, did nothing to fortify that, choosing instead to burst into small fits of giggling as she observed her brother and her friend with barely restrained glee.

"I suppose I should apologize for having cost you money, Lord Tyrion, but you should know that it doesn't always pay to gamble," Rhaenys remarked with a sly grin. "At least you live up to the saying commonly attributed to your house."

"Well, there's always the fact that I could slit his throat at any time for him to be worried about," Arya said cheerfully. "I suppose that doesn't leave Tyrion much choice."

"You didn't pluck that money from the royal treasury, did you, Master of Coin?" Jon asked, his voice straining to maintain a false severity. 

"If I did, you'd never know about it," Tyrion answered. He rubbed his forehead. "Jesting aside, I believe we should talk."

"If you're going to-" Jon began.

Tyrion held up his hands placatingly. "Your Grace... far be it from me to deny you from the very many world-famous beauties who happen to throw themselves at your feet; I simply wanted to discuss the repercussions of your actions." Tyrion sighed before continuing when Jon gave him a sharp nod. "You should know, given my own family history, that I don't have any outstanding issues. Aside from that, you are Targaryens, and precedent is on your side. My only question is... is this a dalliance, or do I have a wedding to budget and plan for?"

"It's not a dalliance for me," Rhaenys said quietly. She shot Jon a terrified look suddenly, as if unsure of what his response would be, but Jon placed his hand over hers and looked at Tyrion directly.

"Nor for me. I would like to be wed here. There are weirwoods, not an hour away, as I understand it," Jon said. He smiled at Rhaenys, and Tyrion felt a stab of fear in his heart for his friend.

 _How many romances have ended in tragedy for him? How many times has he loved someone and had them stolen away from him? He will be a broken man if he loses this one,_ Tyrion thought. Jon had not looked at Daenerys the way he looked at Rhaenys. Though, there were some factors that made this an easier pill to swallow. Rhaenys, first and foremost, was not Daenerys Targaryen, of that Tyrion was sure. The woman was kind-hearted and genuine, and while Daenerys had that, it had always been accompanied with a self-sure belief in her own rightness. Rhaenys did not wear the cloak of a savior - and even if she did, that would have been fine. It was when Daenerys had started to believe in herself as the savior that the road to tyranny opened up.

While a marriage outside his own house might have benefits for Jon in bringing allies and kingdoms into his realm, Tyrion could not deny that a Targaryen-Targaryen marriage had its own charm. It would shore up Jon's claim, perhaps sow discord in Dorne where Daenerys' initial base of support would be... there were good sides to this.

"As happy as we are for you, there are grim realities," Tyrion said. "We ought to control the story of your marriage if that is the course you want to take. Forgive my bluntness, but incest is not a thing taken lightly by the Faith, nor is it particularly looked down on with favor by your own gods, is it?" When Jon shook his head no, Tyrion continued. "Fortunately, we have with us an immensely popular monarch, one whose victories and legends buy us some breathing room when it comes to this. People were willing to overlook Aegon's marriages to Visenya and the original Rhaenys, why?"

"Because Aegon was considered untouchable," Rhaenys finished. "He was the Conqueror."

"Precisely," Tyrion said. "That's precisely it. Aegon the Conqueror was considered to be untouchable because Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion the Black Dread. What was a Septon to tell a man who could burn his gods to ashes? That is why this course is possible for you - precedence of your ancestry, and because Jon's own legend rivals that of Aegon. And then, of course, you have your own dragons, the both of you. Still, we have to placate your bannermen."

"The North will still rally around Jon," Arya said. "He might be a Targaryen by law, but they follow him because of who he is to them, for the things he's done for the North. I don't think it will matter as much to them, and even if it does, they'll have the sense to swallow their words and smile. We'll make them see a Stark wed a Targaryen. Sell it as the Pact of Ice and Fire, if you must."

"But the Riverlands and the Vale are different stories," Tyrion said. "Of course, nobody gives a shit what the Iron Islands think." That earned snickers from the assembled.

"I don't need to sell a fancy story around my marriage, Tyrion," Jon said. He looked at his old friend directly in the eyes. "You tell the tale you think is best, the one you think will dress it up. You're good at that, my friend. You tell stories, and you make the stories enjoyable. But for me, this is a simple matter. I'm taking Rhaenys as my wife." Rhaenys blushed and squeezed Jon's hand.

"As for the Faith, I can start by slitting the throat of every Septon from here to Sunspear until we find one willing to sanction Jon and Rhaenys' union," Arya said directly. Tyrion suppressed a gulp, knowing that Arya was not exaggerating or lying in any way, and it was very much in character for her to do.

"There ought to be no need. I'm willing to negotiate. Sanction of the marriage, in exchange for...." Jon muttered.

"Rebuilding the Great Sept?" Rhaenys added helpfully. "The crown jewel of the Faith, destroyed by Cersei Lannister, and restored by the Targaryens."

Tyrion stroked his chin. "Yes, that could work. Although if we do plan to restore the Sept, it would be no mean feat. Something like that would require a significant financial investment. It's a bigger bargaining chip than should just be squandered on the sanction of a single marriage. You don't want the Faith getting too big for their britches, as my sister found out to her great chagrin."

"Then tie it in with other terms of ours with the Faith," Jon said. "The weaker they are, the better. The crown should not compete with the Sept. In the North, with my bannermen, I don't have to compete with priests full of rules for their loyalty. They are bound by blood and oath to me, oaths sworn in front of the trees. We have no words, or texts, only ourselves and our thoughts and prayers... The Faith is a yoke around my rule. Pen a letter to the High Septon. In exchange for the recognition of the marriage of Aemon Targaryen and Rhaenys Targaryen, the future and unconditional recognition of any Targaryen intermarriage, the planting of weirwoods in the Riverlands and the Eyrie, and official endorsement of myself and Rhaenys as the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, we offer to rebuild the Great Sept of Baelor at our own expense."

"And," Rhaenys added, "we will guarantee the Faith protections from encroachments by the Lord of Light and his followers. That is Aegon's base of support. Between the Old Gods and the Lord of Light, I think the septons would choose trees. In their eyes, better the devil you know..."

Tyrion smiled wryly. "Indeed. At the very least, the tree-worshipping barbarians won't torch their septs and the statues of the gods. I think that would be a suitable proposal, your Graces. I'll speak to Sam and we'll draw up the missive."

"The Faith - where are they headquartered now that King's Landing is rubble? Oldtown and the Starry Sept?" Rhaenys asked. "We must be wary of the Hightowers, if so. They surely enjoy having the Faith under their thumb. By offering to restore the Septons to King's Landing, we'll be taking that away from them."

"They already have the bloody Citadel," Jon grumbled. "Do we have to go through the Hightowers?"

"The Redwynes and their fleet might be more of a boon since we burned the Iron Fleet down," Tyrion said. "But we're getting ahead of ourselves, I think. We still have the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the Crownlands to deal with before we can extend our influence into the Reach. I'll find a way to get the communication to the High Septon secretly. The Faith will want their jewel back in King's Landing. It's a stronger lure than whatever Leyton Hightower can offer, and certainly better than the Red Priests."

"Then do so," Jon said, nodding his assent. 

* * *

Tyrion had never felt particularly comfortable around the strange tree gods of the North, but nowhere had he felt more out of place than the Isle of Faces.

The historian, the curious reader in him, however, was delighted. Accounts of the Isle were rare, given how little it was visited, and the legends that surrounded the place - stories of the Green Men, rumors of unions that had taken place, myths of the Children of the Forest, and other stories that he knew in his heart, given the things he had seen, must be true. Yet despite that delight, he knew that the old gods were watching him through the faces carved onto the great weirwoods of the isle, the ones that stared at him in the torchlight of the starry night, as a gentle cool breeze blew in from the North.

"They're a bit frightening, your old gods," Tyrion muttered. Jon chuckled next to him, clapping his shoulder.

"Why is it that you Southerners always think so? They're but trees, Lord Tyrion." The dwarf cast his friend a sideways glance, as if challenging how blase that statement was.

"Trees that watch your steps and hear your words. I've never felt much of anything when I set foot inside a sept or listen to the droning of a septon, but when it comes to your godswoods and your heart trees... there's something chillingly real about it all," Tyrion said. "Is this where we'll do it?"

"This or we go back to Raventree Hall. And if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not marry Rhaenys in front of a dead weirwood. Not a good omen," Jon added.

"Understandable." Tyrion eyed Jon. "You'll have to tell me now, the secret of yours. Since we're all alone here with only Ser Brienne and Pod." He cast his gaze at the Kingsguard, who were patrolling around the shore of the isle, their hands on their swords and their faces uneasy.

"What secret?"

"Don't play dumb, Jon. How do you do it?" Tyrion pressed.

"Do what?"

"Charm the most beautiful women. Don't tell me it's your wit, because if that's all it took, I'd be the one marrying Rhaenys. Is it the face? The curls? The accent? Are you particularly well endowed? Tormund doesn't seem to think so."

Jon turned a little red. "Tell me he's not passing that story around the camp."

"I can't say what our Free Folk friend has been up to." Tyrion paused, taking a deep breath. "I can say this to you because you're one of the few who'll understand. We've seen a lot of things together, you and I. How do you fight away the fear when you see Rhaenys? How do you deal with the creeping voice that tells you any happiness you have might be taken away in the blink of an eye?"

Jon didn't answer immediately, but his brow furrowed, deep in thought. "I don't. I have to be brave in spite of it, but if I tell the truth, my lord, I wake up every morning these days fearing that something will happen to Rhaenys. I feel that way about an increasing number of people these days."

"Mm. Better than a decreasing number, I suppose," Tyrion said. "A growing house is usually a good thing."

"And your house is particularly small. Have you given thought to marriage?"

"I might be your Master of Coin, but I don't have much to offer," Tyrion said. "Not many women are lining up for middle-aged dwarves with nothing to their name but a title." At Jon's stern glance, Tyrion hastily amended, "A good title, of course, but only a title."

He and Jon walked among the trees, as the leaves cascaded down to create a soft bedding of yellows and oranges and reds, coating the dark earth in a blaze of color. "Sansa once told me about your woman Shae."

"Ah yes. That. Unfortunate affair."

Jon shook his head. "More than that. I stabbed a lover with my own dagger. Ygritte died in my arms with arrows in her. You and I are the few who've had to do the same dirty things. Does it still haunt you?"

Tyrion stared at his hands, as if imagining the chain there again, and then the crossbow he used to kill Tywin. He half expected there to still be bloodstains on them, but they were as clean as could be. "Yes," he replied softly. "I told her I was sorry when it was done. I don't think she heard."

"I told Daenerys that she'd be my queen now and always before I slipped a dagger between her ribs. I can empathize," Jon muttered darkly. "Aye, it's a shit hand to be dealt, but I've died once. It doesn't seem like there's much to look forward to past the grave, so what's the bloody use in being a mope in this life?"

"None at all. Particularly when the most legendary princesses in the world line up for your hand," Tyrion said. The darkness dissipated and the two friends shared a laugh.

"You'll have a keep in the North, Tyrion," Jon offered. "There's a lot of empty land between Dragonsreach and Last Hearth, and it needs watchers and lords. Men I can trust. Aye, it's not Casterly Rock, but at least my northern bannermen don't completely hate your guts. Lure some girl in with that promise."

Their walk led them through the copse of trees on the isle, further and further in. They stopped when they reached a large heart tree, bigger than all the ones surrounding it. It was imposing, but unlike all the other weirwoods, who leered at Tyrion with their great grimacing faces, this one smiled at him. Indeed, not just smiling - it was laughing. A sudden rush of memories came flooding back to him, and Tyrion let out a loud laugh of realization.

"What is it?" Jon asked in surprise.

"Oh, my. It was there in front of our faces the whole time, and yet none of us saw it. I do believe I know when your parents first met, Jon. And now their son comes here to be wed." Tyrion continued to chuckle. "Fate has a funny way of going about its business."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever wondered why Rhaegar crowned your mother his Queen of Love and Beauty at the Tournament of Harrenhal?" Tyrion asked.

"Yes. I imagine they met at some point before."

"Well, that's the thing - there is no one alive who recalls a prior meeting at any point between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Not even I, though I was young at the time. The point is, to common knowledge, Rhaegar literally crowned winter roses on the head of a woman he had never seen before if the story is to be believed. And yet... during the tournament, in the earliest rounds, an anonymous knight with a sigil of a laughing heart tree appeared. That knight wore mismatched, shoddy armor, looked small, and yet somehow unhorsed three knights. No one that was famous or skilled, but still. An impressive feat for a hedge knight newly come from the briar. The Mad King was obsessed with the identity of the night. He thought it an enemy, or perhaps an assassin - I'm not quite sure. But he wanted the man unhorsed and unmasked. He tasked your father with finding out, but Rhaegar never did - or so the story says. The knight disappeared, and yet the next day, that fateful day, he chooses your mother."

"So?"

"The Laughing Tree, Jon. Right there." He pointed at the weirwood, and then at the gnarled roots. "And look below."

Peeking through the roots, intertwined among the bark, there sprouted soft, delicate winter roses.  
  



	27. Before the Weirwood Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nuptials.

**Jon - IX**

He was glad he was hardly in charge of putting on his own wedding feast. Truth be told, this is where he missed Sansa most. She relished in these things.

But then, he had not thought to invite her to his own wedding. Or rather, he had thought quite a lot about it, but in the end, he knew it was not wise. Not now, not so soon after what had transpired between them, and all the blood spilled in the North. In her absence, much of the planning had fallen to Rhaenys herself, who had taken the opportunity to tease him mercilessly about how cruel a husband he would be, to make his own bride labor and toil to prepare the nuptials. He laughed as he thought of her. Rhaenys had shown a rather different side of herself when it came to responsibility, a side that he was beginning to love as much as the rest of her. She did not shirk from work, nor did she consider herself too haughty for it, regardless of how much she joked about it. She was bright, and she looked at everything like a curiosity, a puzzle to be solved, or a book to be read. 

And she set him on fire with little more than a sparkle of the eyes and a ghost of a smile. No, it had not been like this with Daenerys, nor with Ygritte. This was almost effortless, and frightening in how quick he fell every time he was around her. 

There had been unkind whispers and cruel jabs, words were spoken discreetly here or there about how the Targaryens were back to their sibling-fucking ways, but Jon found that whatever had held him back with Daenerys was not present at all with Rhaenys. He did not hide from the fact that she was his half-sister. It was the truth, and there was little use in denying it. 

But she was so much more, too. Perhaps he ought to have been wary of how quickly it had happened, but one thing blended into another, from the time she came to fetch him by that pool outside Castle Black, despondent about how his own brother and sister were alive without his knowledge. He still remembered those violet pools staring into his own, pleading with him to come back. He remembered taking her to the top of the Wall, and the way she'd come alive to see the world from the top. He'd been so surprised to hear it in her voice - not fear, not trepidation, and certainly no sense of inconvenience that he'd taken her up to the Wall where the cold blistered and tore underneath their furs. She'd been excited, and even he could not suppress a smile to see her infectious happiness.

Jon looked down in the fading twilight, at the orange favor he still kept wrapped around his wrist. She'd given him a few more strips of orange cloth - 'I'll not have you wear the same filthy rag every day for the rest of your life, if you're determined to do this, you silly man,' she'd said - but he still liked to return to the original. It got him through the Battle of the Wall, the conquest of the Iron Islands, and he thought it might get him through more battles yet.

"Come on, King Crow," Tormund rumbled. "Let's get this silly part over with so you can steal your queen like a real man."

Jon was shaken out of his thoughts by his friend's voice. He blinked, as the boat came to rest on the stony shore of the Isle of Faces. Pod and Brienne were the first out, followed by Tormund, and then Tyrion. Lord Manderly and Yohn Royce joined them, rounding out the rest of the council. Another boat landed on the beach, and a few of the lords Rhaenys and Jon had chosen as witnesses clambered out - Larence Hornwood, Asher Forrester, and Edmure Tully among them.

Asher clapped him on the shoulder and Larence made a bawdy joke, but for Jon, it was all in one ear and out the other. His eyes were fixed on another boat, one that had landed before them, the one that had ferried Rhaenys and Arya and her party to the isle, to the Laughing Tree. 

In less than an hour, he would be a man wed. It was as if he was walking in a dream.

His party ushered him forward, leading him deeper into the isle past the initial treeline. Tyrion walked side by side with him, and Jon noticed his Master of Coin steal a glance at him every now and then.

"What is it, Tyrion?" Jon muttered.

"It's your wedding day, Your Grace. Do try and look happy," Tyrion said drily.

"I am happy," Jon retorted. "It's just... it doesn't seem real. 

"Yes, someone as dour as you must be unaccustomed to life's joys and happiness. While I wouldn't count marriage as one of them personally, I do hear, on occasion, people describe the institution to me as fulfilling," Tyrion remarked. "Of course, that sounds very droll, but to each their own." The little lord gave him a half-smile. "Don't spend this time too melancholy. Ideally, you'll only be getting married once."

"Once, I think. Rhaenys would have my head if I tried to emulate the Conqueror," Jon said. He would have said more, but he entered the clearing where he and Tyrion had found the Laughing Tree, and his heart near-stopped.

Gentle early winter snow fell, a light dusting of sparkling, crystalline flakes that added to the surrealness of the whole thing. Twilight was fast fading into the night now, and ochre light flickered in the clearing. Long torches, shoved into the earth, led the way to the front of the Laughing Tree, where Ghost lay lazily by the bed of winter roses, huffing his hot breath into the air. He watched his human come into the clearing, watching Jon with his blood-red eyes, and Jon went to him. He scratched idly behind Ghost's remaining ear, and the direwolf nuzzled him in return.

"You ready to add another to our pack, boy?" he whispered to Ghost. The direwolf gazed back at him with those intelligent, knowing red eyes, and burrowed his snout into Jon's arms in answer. "I suppose you are. Me too, Ghost. Me too."

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Well, it appears the groom is here. And now all we need is for the bride to not realize she's about to make an enormous mistake..."

Jon shot the man an annoyed glare. "Thank you very much for that assessment, Lord Tyrion." He stood, taking his place in front of the tree. He dusted some of the snow off his leather gloves, and nervously picked at his cloak and the two silver clasps - one wolf, one dragon - that tied it to his doublet. Tormund bore in his arms a similar cloak, one emblazoned with the White Dragon he had made his own sigil, the one he would place around Rhaenys shoulders in a few short moments. Waiting was the difficult part; Jon shifted his weight on his feet, idly stooping to scratch Ghost some more as if to expend the nervous energy that was building in his body. It puzzled him why he was reacting so. Even battle did not make him this nervous. It was not as if he feared that Rhaenys would say no... and yet some sort of apprehension plagued him.

It did not last long. There was a rustling at the end of the clearing and some hushed voices, and everyone present straightened immediately, standing stock still or moving quickly from where they had wandered into their designated place.

Arya entered first - still refusing to dress like a lady, but somehow convinced by Rhaenys or someone or the other to wear something befitting the occasion, wearing the finest trousers and doublet she could lay her hands on in short notice, with Needle and her dagger, as always, tucked by her side, though she had the courtesy to wear fine ceremonial scabbards for both blades, as befitting the occasion. She had a silver wolven circlet around her head, befitting her status as Princess, though she rarely wore the title.

It was the woman who entered in after Arya that stole his breath away. If there was ever a moment he could capture in oil on canvas, or in stained glass, or in an illuminated manuscript, it would be this one. Rhaenys' olive skin and dark hair was offset by the silvery dress she wore, tailored perfectly to her every curve, both modest and enticing at the same time. She wore a dark cloak with the Red Dragon emblazoned upon it. She seemed ethereal, like a creature of the gods captured from the sky and brought to the earth. He could not take his eyes off her, nor her soft smile, nor the blush that crept into her cheeks.

His. She was all his. He felt a fire so strong erupt in his chest that if there was ever, at all, any lingering doubt that he was not blood of the dragon, it was burned away. Dragons were possessive creatures, and he had found his hoard, his treasure. 

His eyes fell to her head, and the sight near brought a tear to his eye. She, too, had a silvery circlet, but where Arya's had been wholly wolven, there were two heads on Rhaenys' - a wolf and a dragon, united. Set on it were beautiful blue gemstones, carved into the shape of small flowers. His queen of love and beauty had come, wearing her crown of winter roses, to become his queen in reality.

Behind him, he heard Tyrion's voice mutter to him. "Cherish this moment, Jon. It is rare that someone is ever blessed like this."

Arya escorted Rhaenys, with some ladies-in-waiting and a small retinue consisting mainly of some of the Riverlander ladies, trailing behind her. They stopped at a respectable distance from the Laughing Tree. Jon could not tear his eyes away from his wife-to-be, and to his delight, she could not take her eyes off him. There were at least forty people in that clearing that night, and yet there may as well have been only them two.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Lord Manderly said. Only then did Jon think of something other than Rhaenys - if he had the choice, it would have been Davos who said these words. Typically it was the head of the household who said these words, or the highest ranking lord - Jon just so happened to be both things and the groom to boot. But the thought was gone soon, and Rhaenys again filled the entirety of his being.

"Rhaenys, of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" Arya responded.

Jon did his best to muster his most kingly voice, but his heart was pounding in his ears and he was sure that his throat was as dry as his lips. His voice could have been a rasping croak for all he knew. "Aemon, of the House Targaryen, known as Jon of the House Stark, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, First of his Name, comes to claim her. Who gives her?"

"Arya of the House Stark, Princess of the North," Arya replied.

"Princess Rhaenys, will you take this man?" Manderly asked.

He wanted to laugh as Rhaenys' voice came out as composed and queenly as ever. "I take this man," she said, her smile growing and her blush deepening. As she said the words, the pounding in his ears vanished and the quiet of the clearing came back.

A sudden murmur crossed through the crowd, as all eyes flickered away from the royal couple and behind them at the Laughing Tree. The tree itself was bleeding fresh sap, and it looked more jovial than ever. But it was not the tree itself that claimed the attention of the crowd, but the small figures that had emerged from the shadows behind it. He recognized them immediately for who they were - beautiful, elfin creatures of dusky complexion, their faces weaved and knotted like roots and branches, like nature itself. They were Children of the Forest. The murmur grew concerned, but Jon held out his hand behind him and a hand he knew to be Rhaenys' grasped it. He drew her close to him, and they knelt in front of the four figures.

"Hail to the Children of the Forest," Jon said loudly, enough for the witnesses to hear and gasp. "Have you come to bless this union?"

One of the figures stepped in front, and Jon thought for a moment that it was the Child of the Forest that he had met at the Weirwood tree beyond the Wall, where he had met the Three-Eyed Raven, but it was only one that bore a passing resemblance to her. The Child smiled at him and Rhaenys. "We have. We are here to witness the seal of the Song of Ice and Fire, and to pass the blessings of the Gods to both of you. Will you seek their favors?"

Rhaenys answered before he could. "We will," she said, regally, before that same bookish curiosity crept into her voice. "And I am honored that Children of the Forest have come before my own eyes, living and in the flesh. This is not something I ever dreamed I would see."

"And yet you will still see things that you have dreamed of, Rhaenys of the House Targaryen," the Child answered with a sweet laugh. "And I think many of them will be good." One of the Children handed the lead Child a wooden box, and she presented it to the couple. "A gift, from the gods," she said.

Jon took it and opened the box, only to find out that it was filled with earth. A look of confusion passed over his face, but Rhaenys' hand gently traveled over the dirt, lifting some of the loam off the top to reveal ashen seeds with red streaks. Jon's mouth dropped as he looked at the Child.

"Are these-?"

"Weirwood seedlings. It has come time for the Gods to return to their forest halls in the South. Will you bring them, Aemon, chosen of the Gods?"

Jon closed the box reverently and looked up at the Children with awe. "I will."

The Child nodded her head with respect. "We thank you, Aemon. Ask the Gods for your blessings."

Jon and Rhaenys closed their eyes and bowed their heads beneath the boughs of the Laughing Tree. He asked for a long life for the two of them, peace for their house, and for happiness in their life. He finished, to his surprise, before she did - Rhaenys took a few moments longer, her mouth working silently as she pled to his gods for something. Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him, her indigo eyes twinkling. They stood together, and Jon undid the fastenings of her cloak, sweeping it off her shoulders and handing it to Larence Hornwood. Tormund stepped up, with a new cloak bearing the White Dragon in his arms, and Jon took it and fastened it to her dress with matching wolf-dragon clasps.

They looked back at the Children of the Forest, who had gathered themselves and were turning to leave back into the forest. The lead Child turned around and smiled at the couple. "I do believe that this is where you humans embrace and kiss, is it not?"

Jon needed little prompting, as he swept Rhaenys into his arms and kissed her warmly, feeling the press of her body tight against his, to the tittering of the assembled ladies and the cheers of the men, though it all seemed half-hearted, given the shock many of them were going through, processing exactly what had happened.

He was hers, and she was his, from this moment to their last moment. He had never known happiness so profound, and every ounce of love he felt in his heart poured from his lips to hers.

Tyrion stepped forward. "All hail King Aemon, Dragon of the North! All hail Queen Rhaenys, Dragon of Dorne!"

"All hail!"

Over them, Lyagar and Eliarron roared, as they flew over the isle, breathing fire and weaving intricate patterns around each other in beautiful ochre and white dance.

* * *

The boat ride back from the isle was as surreal as the wedding itself. In their boat were only Jon, Rhaenys, Arya, and the oarsmen, who gave the King and his Queen some distance. Even Arya sat two spots over, giving Rhaenys and Jon their own bench. He did not speak a word to his wife, nor she to him, but they held each other as the moonlight shimmered over the lake. Rhaenys tucked her head into his shoulder, resting against his strong frame. They drank in the reality of what had just happened.

When they embarked by their camp at Harrenhal, they were greeted by soldiers and knights and bannermen, all of whom waited for the King and Queen. They shouted their names, hailed them and their titles, and roared with pride as the royal dragons flew overhead. Harrenhal's great hall had been prepared with a feast, and Jon and Rhaenys entered first, taking their seat at the head of the high table on the dais, with their family and council in the positions of honor.

As the feast commenced, their banners came forth to present them with wedding gifts. Jon was glad most of them were fairly modest, at least from his Northern bannermen, who knew his character. The Riverlanders were much more giving, sometimes extravagantly so. He lost count of everything that was given to them, but thankfully Rhaenys shone here again, the image of queenly perfection as she greeted the bannermen and accepted their gifts with grace and regality. 

"Are you going to do this all night?" she asked him teasingly, in one of the breaks between presentations. "You're just staring at me and making me do all the work. I'm flattered, _husband_ , but I could use your kingly support."

"Aye, but I can't tear my eyes off you right now, _wife,_ " he said. Gods, the word rolled so easily off his tongue when he spoke to Rhaenys, and she rewarded him with a musical laugh. 

"Will it be like this often when we sit on our thrones?" she said mirthfully.

"I think it may be like this until my last day, my love," he responded. Rhaenys' eyes glistened, and she sighed and touched her forehead against his.

"For someone who hates flowery speech, you are awfully good at it, Jon," she said, pulling apart. Happy tears shone in her eye, wiped away as quickly as they had come. He turned his attention to the floor below, where the lords and ladies came before them, deciding he would try and be of some use to his wife. The gift-giving took forever, it seemed to Jon, but he gritted his teeth and dragged himself through it, stealing a glance at his beautiful wife any time it started getting too much to bear.

To his curiosity, there was one guest who surprised him. A lord from Dorne had come, ostensibly in fulfillment of the invitation that had been sent to Gendry and some of the high lords of the Stormlands, as a hope for opening negotiations to bring that realm back into the fold. But Gendry had not come, sending a raven to Arya and Jon explaining his reasons - vague descriptions of 'turmoil near the Dornish marches' - and had sent a Dornish lord and lady in his stead.

When the herald announced Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall, and his aunt Lady Allyria, Jon stood, but Rhaenys was faster. Jon didn't quite blame her - this was the first interaction she'd had with anyone from her mother's homeland, and he knew that Princess Elia and Ashara Dayne had been close.

Ashara Dayne... the thought of that woman often had sent his mind reeling. He knew that some used to speak about Father and Lady Ashara at Harrenhal, and that he might have been the product of their union. Sometimes he had wondered if Lady Ashara was his mother. He knew the truth now, but he could not help but feel a connection to the Daynes for just that reason; they were infinitely more tied up in his birth than he had known. Ser Arthur Dayne had died in battle with his father, _defending_ the tower that held his mother and him.

Edric Dayne was a pale boy with hair so blonde it might have been Targaryen hair, and eyes that seemed near purple in the light of the Great Hall. He was young - likely Sansa's age, but tall, and coming into his own. His aunt was similarly young, perhaps of age with Jon himself. She had pale eyes, not quite blue and not quite grey, with dark hair and a pretty face with a pale complexion too, with a fading sun-kissed tan that indicated she had been gone from Dorne for some time.

"We come to offer congratulations, Your Graces, on behalf of House Dayne and on behalf of the Storm King, Gendry Baratheon, who again expresses his deepest sorrows that he could not be present for the wedding of his cousins the Targaryens." Lord Edric said. "He also asked that we thank you, Your Grace, for the safe return of Ronald Storm, and for his knighthood. The young man seems to think most highly of you."

"Welcome and well met, Lord Dayne," Jon said. "My wife is no doubt overjoyed to have a presence from her mother's homeland here on our wedding day," Jon said, looking at Rhaenys, who had a strange expression on her face.

"For the love my mother bore for Lady Ashara, you are more than welcome at our side, Lord Dayne, and Lady Allyria," Rhaenys said. "Perhaps we might sit and speak on the morrow?"

It was Lady Allyria who responded. "We would be most honored to, Your Grace," she said, with a practiced curtsy. Jon felt himself staring at her face longer than he should have, but it was not anything untoward. Instead, there was a familiarity in her features, something he could not quite place, but something that made him feel as if he'd known her all his life.

Dancing began after the gifting, and while Jon had little love for it, it was infinitely better than waiting for dignitaries to come and push their wedding gifts onto them. As it was, dancing with Rhaenys was more than tolerable, he thought, even if he wasn't used to the dancing style of the southerners. Rhaenys, of course, was impeccable. "How did you get good at this?" Jon grumbled into her ear as they twirled around the floor.

"I read the steps in a book," she replied simply.

"That's not good enough. Most people have to practice!" 

She laughed in his ear and held him tighter. "Jealous, husband?"

"A little," he said, with a begrudging admission. "S'not fair." Rhaenys pressed up closer against him now, and he suppressed a groan as he felt his manhood stiffen under his trousers. 

"I'll make it up to you tonight, I promise," she whispered huskily in his ear. 

He danced with Arya, too, who couldn't stop with the whispered ribald jokes, making Jon's cheeks burn. He asked her how she'd been so sure to start a wager with Tyrion about whether he and Rhaenys would confess their feelings; she said honestly that the wager pool was not based on _if,_ but _when._ Jon narrowed his eyes at that.

"Who else was in this wager pool?" Jon muttered.

"Others," Arya said in vague confirmation, with a wicked laugh. "You'll never know, sweet brother. I wasn't the only one to pocket a tidy sum."

"So this was your ulterior motive in pushing Rhaenys and I together?"

Arya laughed again, but her eyes were serious. "Anyone who spent any amount of time in you could sense the growing affection. At times there was so much tension between the two of you I thought you would leap across the council table and-

"Arya," Jon groaned.

"Sorry. You know what I mean, though," she said cheekily. "And for what it's worth, you did end up on the tabl-"

"Arya!" His sister let out an undignified cackle.

The next person to request a dance with him was Lady Allyria. Again he found himself studying her, trying to place that familiarity that kept rising to his mind whenever he saw her, and so he accepted her offer. They mostly exchanged pleasantries, discussed the topic of Beric Dondarrion, who Jon knew Allyria had been betrothed to, but more and more it troubled him that he could not name the resemblance, and so he tried a direct approach.

"Lady Allyria, forgive me, but I can't help but think we've met before. You remind me of someone, and yet I can't quite recall whose face I think of when I see you," Jon confessed. Allyria smiled at him, though it was a sad smile.

"So I've been told. Today is your wedding day, Your Grace. My nephew and I have several things we must discuss with you, and they can all wait until tomorrow. The Queen is a lucky woman, and you are too, I think, for having each other. Enjoy your union tonight, unburdened with anything else," she said. With that, he gave her a polite bow and she turned and took her leave. A cry went up through the hall - time for the bedding, some of the lords shouted. There was an excited hubbub around them now, and Jon and Rhaenys, who had come together after the last of their dances, were now separated by an excited throng of weddinggoers. Jon found the practice a little distasteful, though Rhaenys laughed it off, and she had pointed out to him that they ought not to push the traditions of marriage, since their bannermen had accepted their union without much vocal dissent. Bawdy ladies tore at his clothes, carrying him up from the Great Hall to the Lord's chamber that had been prepared for him and Rhaenys.He lost sight of her as he was pushed into the room with little more than his nightclothes. Whichever squire or page was in charge of leaving the fire on had forgotten his duties, leaving Jon to curse the chill of the room as he knelt by the fireplace and struck a flame by the assembled logs. His ears pricked at soft footfalls behind him, and when the fire was lit, he turned around.

Rhaenys stood before him in little more than a shift, her arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised. "It's rather cold in here, Jon," she grumbled, before breaking out into a laugh. "Gods, I couldn't care less. Leave the fire, and come to me, husband." She sat down on the corner of the bed - _their_ bed, at least while they were here at Harrenhal, Jon thought.

"You'll have me get up in the middle of the night to stoke the fire if I don't do it now," Jon retorted.

"Oh, you were planning to sleep at some point?" she said coolly.

"That's not- bloody hells," he spluttered, poking at the fire a few more times until he was sure it would grow into a roaring one. A soft noise came through their door. Rhaenys looked at him with an inch of concern and not a little bit of exasperation, but Jon knew well who it was. He opened the door before she could protest, and Ghost poked his snow-white snout in through the doorframe, before squeezing his way into the room. The direwolf regarded him with baleful eyes, as if admonishing him not to be too noisy tonight, before ambling over to Rhaenys and sniffing her.

"She's part of our pack now too, boy," Jon commanded gruffly. "Protect her as you would me."

Rhaenys held out her hand and he gave it a few approving licks before he grew disinterested and slunk over to the fireplace before plopping down like an oversized white rug. Jon looked at him helplessly, but Rhaenys' soft chuckle tore his eyes away from the direwolf and to his wife.

"He makes me feel safer," Rhaenys confessed. "Ever since the battle. I feel like a piece of you is around with me whenever you're not. Suffice it to say it was a very lonely month to and from the Eyrie."

Jon sat on the bed next to her and pulled her into his arms, and she fell into them without any resistance. They laid back on the bed, with her head resting on his chest. She peered up at him with those lovely indigo eyes of hers, and smiled. "Am I dreaming?"

"If so, I'd rather not wake up," Jon said weakly. "I'm happy, Rhae. I can't tell you the last time I was."

"Me neither, love," she said honestly, pressing a kiss to his chest, right where the wound on his heart was. "But now I feel as if things are the way they were supposed to be. I thought it would be more trouble than this to get you into my bed."

He raised an eyebrow at her quizzically. "And why is that?"

"I thought you wouldn't want me."

"I want you plenty," Jon replied slyly. She laughed and slapped his chest.

"Not like that. I was just afraid... I could see how much you cared for your family, Jon." Vulnerability seeped into her voice. "For your Stark siblings. I wanted that for myself, for someone I could call my own. Aegon wasn't nearly enough for me, not with how his attention always seemed to be on Westeros, and I never craved his affection. With you... from the moment I laid eyes on you, it was all that I wanted. It was all that I could think about on the voyage from Asshai to Eastwatch. I can't tell you the number of times Arya had to convince me that you weren't going to reject me out of hand when you first met me."

Jon felt a prickle of guilt. "And so when we met at Castle Black..."

She rubbed his chest. "Yes. But only for a moment. Meeting you by the pool, going up to the Wall... all of that helped assuage those fears quite a bit. And then from there, it became so much more, Jon. You were beautiful from the moment I laid eyes on you, and you made my blood run hotter than it ever had. I didn't want to be only your sister then. I wanted much more." She laughed again. "Does that make me a lusty creature?"

Jon shrugged. "If it does, I'm no better. Do you think I didn't notice how beautiful you were when I first saw you? I felt that fire in my blood too. I dreamed of you sitting on that throne next to me more times than I care to admit." His hands traced over the smooth, soft skin of her hips and waist, feeling their way under the shift up to her breasts. His hands must have been rough and calloused, but she did not complain; instead, she pressed into the contact. His fingers traveled up her body and settled around her breasts, a finger tracing a lazy circle around her nipple. She moaned softly and started to rub her body against his, before stopping abruptly. She raised off him, straddling his hips before slipping off the thin shift and tossing it aside. "Do I please you, husband?" she said lustily.

She did, and more. Every inch of her looked like it had been painstakingly carved by the gods, olive, soft, and curved in all the right places, and the moonlight streaming through into their room only served to enhance her beauty more. He did not answer with words. instead, Jon sat up and captured her lips with his own, as she moaned into his mouth. Her hands fumbled with the ties of his tunic, undoing them so she could pull the cloth over his chest and throw it onto the ground with her own chemise. He helped her along as their mouths battled for dominance above, each kiss hungrier and more desirous than the last.

Once the struggle relaxed, she found his stiffened length behind her, and fell back just enough to impale herself on his manhood slowly.

He gasped and his arms flew from the bed to her sides, grabbing onto her hips as he angled himself better for her to slide down, and slide down she did. Every inch was torture, as she was soaked for him already.

Slowly she began to rock her hips, finding a slow trotting pace that made her groan from the friction his groin created against hers. She leaned forwards slightly, trying to please that little button he had found with his mouth their first night against his rough skin. When she found it, the little jolt in her body caused her to cry out loudly in a way that set Jon's mind on fire. His actions were guided less by thought now than pure instinct. He sat partially, keeping his legs down for her to continue riding, but his torso came up to meet hers, their faces inches away from each other. The fire had caused the room to heat up, but he wouldn't have known or cared either way, from the pure warmth of their bodies conjoined in the covers. He lost himself in her indigo eyes as her bucking became faster, and his hips ground in rhythm with hers. He whispered mindless, sweet nothings to her - 'my love, my wife' - their pace becoming faster and faster until neither of them bothered to conceal their pleasure, their moans so loud that the entire fortress may as well have heard them together.

He could sense her beginning to tremble, the way she did when her pleasure was about to reach its peak, but he wasn't about to let her finish herself atop him. He was going to do it for her.

His hands found her hips and grasped them firmly, stopping her motion. She whined, a little needy noise, as her pleasure was suddenly halted before it could crest that peak and fall headlong from it, and Jon grinned cruelly knowing he'd cut her off from her climax. In one rapid movement, he moved her to the edge of the bed again, and while still inside her, he lifted both of them up, his powerful arms lowering her until he was fully sheathed inside her warmth again. Gods, he did not have words to describe how it felt to be inside her velvet walls. With two quick steps, he pinned her to the cold wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, and she cried out as the wall hit her back and forced him even deeper inside her.

"My turn to please you, wife," he whispered lustfully in her ear.

He pounded her against that wall with no mercy, pistoning into her with a methodical strength and pace that caused her to come near that peak. When he felt her tighten again, he pulled out until he was almost outside her, and stopped.

She cried out in want, reverting to High Valyrian. "Aemon, **_kostilus_**!" He drove into her harder, the use of his dragon name heating his blood to a boiling point. This little he still remembered and some vaguely conscious part of him made a mental note to have Rhaenys teach him more... if only for use in the bedroom.

"Please, what, wife?" he growled.

She didn't have the words to express her desire. Every noise out of her was just a greedy little thing, begging for release. He laughed, a twinkle of victory in his eyes, and buried himself in her once more. She saw stars from the sudden entry.

"Like that, my queen?"

" ** _K-kessa, ñuha dārys_** ," she moaned. " ** _Konīr, konīr, sepār hae bona, dōrī keligon, jorrāelagon..._** "

He almost pulled out again, and then slammed back into her. He could sense that she was close, but he was not about to let her climax yet, and focused instead on dragging it out for her. She whimpered endlessly as he pressed her against the wall, and her nails carved new scars into his back - more for him to wear with pride.

He repeated that, impaling her against the wall slowly, before pulling out and slamming into her again. She stopped saying anything sensible, and so did he, both of them mumbling and growling and whispering little noises of avaricious desire at each other until with one final slam, he brought both of them over the edge. She could have buried a scream into his shoulder, but chose not to, letting everyone in the nearby vicinity exactly how well fucked she had just been as he spilled inside her.

* * *

Jon lost track of how many times they fucked or made love throughout the night. Sometimes it was the whole act; sometimes it was just hands, fingers, and mouths, or some combination thereof. She was like an elixir he could not quit, and she was no less tireless, keeping pace with him until he knew dawn could not be far away. After the last time, when they collapsed, sweating and heaving heavy breaths into the sheets, she let out a soft and contented laugh, intertwining their legs and burrowing into his embrace under the covers. Jon pressed a tired kiss to her head, and she traced soft lines across and around the patterns of his scars.

"I like it when you switch to Valyrian," he mumbled into her hair.

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "Did I really?"

"You did. Against the wall."

She looked embarrassed at first and then burst out into laughter, holding her sides. Jon joined her soon, and their room echoed with it. Even as the laughter trailed away into soft chuckles, she cozied further into his embrace, drawing the covers up to her shoulder and over their bodies. "I didn't even realize it. A job well done, husband," she teased. His hands trailed over her body once more, and she groaned softly. "Jon, if you don't stop we're going to do this till noon."

One arm tucked itself underneath her head, and the other settled on her belly, rubbing circles around it. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not, and that's why we should probably sleep. Else I'll just stay locked away in this room with you until we grow old and tired of each other," she murmured lazily. "I could stay here forever."

The words gave him a momentary pause, his mind flashing back to his past, but he shoved the thoughts away as soon as they arose. He would not poison this moment with his wife, with Rhaenys, by thinking those thoughts again. Instead, he held her closer to him. "I could too, my love. But the realm needs Queen Rhaenys as much as it needs me."

She smacked his chest lightly. "Don't remind me of my responsibilities. Tell me sweet things. It's still our wedding night," she grumbled.

"I can't remember when I first wanted you," he said softly. "The thoughts were buried in my mind long before, but when Sansa told me you ought to be my queen, I thought about it consciously for the first time. And do you know what I saw?"

"What was it, love?"

"You, with a crown, sitting next to me as we ruled. A hall with many children, with black and silver curls, and purple and grey eyes, squealing and laughing. I saw joy." He paused for a moment, remembering the daydream fondly. "I can't wait to see you grow large with our babes, my love," he whispered sleepily into her ear. "Ever since I saw you playing with those children in the Winter Town, I wanted it, even if I didn't admit it until now." He opened his eyes to find hers, once sleepy, now alert. Those indigo pools beckoned to him, tempting him to come to drown in them. Her hands snaked out and found his manhood again, rubbing it gently awake.

"I thought you said no more," he groaned into her shoulder.

"I'll happily keep going until noon if it means a little dragon to call our own," she breathed, pulling herself over him, still under the covers, before impaling herself on his cock once more. "Until noon, until the next night, until there are no more stars and no moon and no sun in the sky. We have a house to rebuild, my love."


	28. The Honeywine Ran Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War erupts. The consequences of dealing with devils are realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV character. Likely our penultimate new POV character :)
> 
> Sorry for the wait :( I think this chapter is worth it, ratchets up the drama and stakes a little.

**Aegon - I**

He gripped the parchment so tightly it began to tear in the middle. His purple eyes swept over the words; he read the letters, and yet the meaning of what was said was incomprehensible. Unthinkable.

Rhaenys was supposed to be his. He'd always understood it, and until now, he thought she had too. It was a given, to continue their family line, to continue their dynasty.

A nagging voice told him that even if she married Aemon, she would still continue their dynasty, but he shoved that to the side. She was supposed to be **his.**

Was it his fault? Had he pushed her away, showed too much favoritism to Daenerys? How could he have been blind so as not to see it happening in front of his eyes? He knew Rhaenys had always been conscious about her Dornish appearance, her olive skin and dark curls as opposed to the pale looks and straight silver locks that had belonged to their family. Surely she had been enflamed by Daenerys' appearance, driven hot with jealousy that Aegon only had eyes for Daenerys and not for her. He should have taken both of them as wives at the same time, or tried to be conscious of her feelings, shown her equal love and affection, but he had been blinded by the silver hair and the lilac eyes of his aunt.

The thought of his aunt sent his skin crawling, as his eyes read and reread the report from their eyes and ears further to the north. He remembered their wedding night. Aegon was no stranger to women, and he'd had his share of them over time in Essos and Asshai. He had come to Daenerys aroused and enflamed - who would not, with a beauty like her in their bed? But she thought she had been willing, she had been cold, distant, and barely responsive. He still remembered the completely dead look in her eyes as he rutted over her, every noise coming only from him and nothing from her.

That was a mistake. Rhaenys would have been different, he was sure. If not passionate love, he at least cared for her as his sister. There would have been warmth there, and kindness. He would even take hatred and anger over the bitter coldness that emanated from Daenerys. Arianne, at least, was fiery, lively, and eager. If only her eyes were the same lovely shade of indigo that Rhaenys' were...

Now, the thought of sweet, warm, beautiful Rhaenys - his Rhaenys - in some Northman barbarian's bed drove him to rage.

"My love?"

The words caused his hands to slacken, and he looked up, blinking away a bitter cloud of film. Arianne looked at him with concern. He placed the parchment on the table and lay back in his chair, sighing.

"Sorry, Arianne." He ran a hand through his silver hair, moving it out of place. "The news is... concerning."

Arianne sighed as she sat on the table, leaning against it with her body. "I admit that it is not ideal, but I don't see a cause for immediate alarm. Rhaenys' claim to Dorne is secondary to my own, and once you and I are married in the open, Dorne will be bound to us. I have seen to it."

That, admittedly, was true. Arianne had efficiently purged Sunspear of anyone whose loyalty to her would be suspect, and Dorne was mostly - firmly - in their grasp. The few holdouts that existed - namely Edric and Allyria Dayne - had fled, and Starfall had been remanded to the custody of the Daynes of High Hermitage. With the Fowlers and the Yronwoods, Arianne had built a powerful hold over their base of operations.

"Why do you worry so?" she asked, placing a hand on his arm.

Aegon bit back the truth. How could he tell her that he burned with anger because Rhaenys was with that Northman and not with him? "Because it means that Rhaenys has truly turned traitor."

"Yes. And after we have won the war, we can rehabilitate her back into the family. Make her see the error of her ways," Arianne said soothingly.

"She will not. You do not know Rhaenys, Ari. She's stubborn when she wants to be, and if she's wed this Northman... this Aemon... then she believes in him. But why? He could have married her to the..."

"Lannisters? If Rhaenys dislikes them half as much as you, then she will not," Arianne interjected.

"But the Lannisters in Casterly Rock are of a different branch. Or forget the Lannisters. Why has he not offered her to the Reachmen? Marrying her himself gains him no alliances."

"But it does shore up his claim as a Targaryen," Arianne pointed out. "They might not look it, but he has the same amount of Valyrian ancestry you do." Aegon bristled at that, but it was the truth. "If he and Rhaenys have babes, they may well come out silver-haired and lilac-eyed. Your children with Daenerys might be Targaryen in appearance, but ours..."

Aegon's head turned, and his pale eyes found hers. "Not exactly a good argument to make for your own interests."

Arianne smiled and rubbed his forearm. "It's a simple truth. Would you have me coat my words with lies and honey?"

He supposed it was better that she did not. And of course, the solution she offered was better than the alternative, the one he'd rather not consider at all - Rhaenys had actually grown to care for this man, and had married him to follow her heart. That thought snaked around his heart like a withered tendril of some poison plant, digging its roots into his mind and filling his thoughts with a fogging miasma. No, it was about the claim. Rhaenys had turned traitor, and she was helping Aemon secure his name. It had nothing to do with love.

He sighed again. "We will have to accelerate our plans. There is no room for error, not with the Northmen making so much progress down Westeros. They control everything up 'til the Gods' Eye now, and our eyes and ears report that Aemon has made camp at Harrenhal. He has the support of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Iron Islands. We still yet only have Dorne."

"He doesn't 'have' the Iron Islands. He simply has neutralized them. At best he can expect that they will not hinder him, nor ally themselves with us," Arianne said. "With the Iron Fleet broken... we will be the great naval power in the coming war. And we have Queen Daenerys' dragon. Surely theirs cannot have grown so large as to pose a threat."

Aegon considered her words. That much was true. Aerax had grown, according to the steady reports Daenerys sent him from the East, but he was only the size of a small horse. In a battle, Drogon would have made quick work of him. Eliarron and Aemon's dragon could hardly damage him. "Where do we stand with the Redwynes and the Hightowers?"

Arianne took a breath, standing upright and pacing towards the window. The evening sun filtered in from the west now, fading fast into the mountains behind Sunspear, away from the sea. The light made her already tanned skin glow even more, as she faced the mountains. "The Redwynes have agreed. The betrothal of a girl from their house to your heir, Lord Paramountcy of the Reach, and their navy shall be ours. They will require the aid of our spears on land, however."

"Heir from my issue," Aegon clarified. "My heir right now..."

"Would be your younger brother, of course," Arianne said. "I have drawn up the treaty to reflect that. Heirs from among your children. _**Our**_ children." Her eyes flashed and she smiled.

Aegon wanted to laugh. Arianne had stricken up a rivalry with Daenerys without the latter even being present. He knew well that Arianne desired to see her children on the throne, not Daenerys', but the thought of his aunt's passive face and dead eyes made him shudder again. More likely than not, it would be his and Arianne's child that sat on a new Iron Throne, he thought. "There is no reason to disguise my arrival anymore if we are to add the Reach to our list of kingdoms. It is high time that we formalize our union."

Arianne's grin grew larger, and she beckoned him closer with a languid curl of her finger. Aegon stood from his desk, watching the fading sunlight play over her skin. She smiled coyly and let the shoulder of her dress slip, and a single shift of her hips sent the thin fabric down, pooled around her feet. He felt the fire in his blood grow hotter, with the sight of her.

"Let me carry your seed into the sept," she whispered wickedly into his ear after he drew close. His cock stiffened in anticipation as her hands fumbled with his trousers, and she let out a playful yelp when he pressed her against the warm stone wall of the solar.

His only regret was that she did not have the same lovely indigo eyes that he missed desperately now.

* * *

When the Septon finished wrapping their hands together, and they had said the words, Aegon looked out at the assembled lords. Many of them, particularly the elder ones who no doubt remembered his parents, gaped at him and Arianne like they were the second coming of ghosts from the past. When the Septon put a crown on his head and on Arianne's, they shouted his name and hers, acclaiming them as the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The feast and the bedding went by faster than he could recollect, and before long he and Arianne were deposited near-naked into their bedchambers, to consummate what had already been consummated so often before. But now, he no longer had to hide like a secret prisoner in Sunspear, like a shadow on the wall.

The next morning, he walked openly, and servant and lord alike bowed to him, calling him 'Your Grace.' The thrill of the title was strong, and he felt like savoring the first step in the long-drawn plans they had made, he and Rhaenys and the Red Priests, to restore their house to the Seven Kingdoms. Within a fortnight, two great carracks arrived from Volantis, bearing hundreds of zealots armed with fiery shields and spears, bearing red cloaks and the sigils of R'hllor and House Targaryen, and a missive from Daenerys, approving of the marriage. He had never doubted it, though Arianne had seemed apprehensive; he and Daenerys had long discussed the eventuality of a second wife. Though she had never explicitly admitted it, their cold bedroom and the fact that she had once been dead led Aegon to believe that Daenerys was barren.

Her approval and her co-operation with Arianne were two different problems, however, and though he may have the former, he was not so sure that the latter would be easily secured. He pushed the thought from his mind, even as he prepared the armies of Dorne and the men given to him by the R'hllorian priests. There were more immediate problems to worry about.

He and Arianne rode out within days, a great host of spears and sand-steeds at their back, carrying the sun and spear of Elia and the red dragon of Rhaegar. He felt as if destiny was at his back. Men from the Tolands, the Jordaynes, the Vaiths, the Allyrions, and the Dalts, as well as other minor houses met with them on the road, marching to Salt Shore where Tremond Gargalen awaited them with a host of sellsail transports. They took the ships to the mouth of the Torrentine, to Starfall, where Gerold Dayne greeted them with the rest of the strength of Dorne assembled. Dayne, Qorgyle, Fowler, Blackmont, Santagar, Manwoody, Yronwood - all the houses that had once pledged to his mother and his uncles, now come to support the child of Valyria and Dorne.

The great Dornish host of twenty-five thousand landed at Sunflower Hall, quickly overcoming the weak defenses of House Cuy with the aid of the Redwyne fleet. A raven came from Goldengrove, and Paxter Redwyne wrote that their army was marching on Highgarden, leaving the south of the Reach open for Aegon. Aegon's own host quickly marched to and toppled Three Towers and House Costayne, and within a month, they were at the banks of the Honeywine, looking out across the river to Oldtown.

* * *

The morning sun gleamed off the blue banks of the river, and rays of light illuminated the beautiful greenery of the Reach. Aegon had never seen such in his life, not in Essos and certainly not among the sands and oases of Dorne. Here, everything was gentle, rolling, and lightly wooded, like an emerald paradise.

Down the bank of the Honeywine, across the fields from his own host, stood the glittering army of House Hightower. Aegon bared his teeth in a smile.

The Hightowers had little choice but to sally forth and face them here outside Oldtown. The siege of Highgarden was progressing too quickly for them to wait out, and Leyton Hightower had little choice but to break his own siege so that he could keep his son and heir, Baelor Hightower, from starving out along the Mander. The damage done to that castle by the Lannisters, he was told, had not been repaired, and the enemy there could not wait out Paxter Redwyne's siege. Still, even with only less than half the Reach, Hightower had managed to amass thirty thousand men. Many were peasant levies, but the Reach still boasted knights and men-at-arms. No matter the damage they had suffered in the War of the Five Kings - the verdant lands here were always ready to be squeezed of more plenty.

He glanced at Arianne on the white steed next to his black charger, who smiled at him with a hand over her belly. Her moonblood had not come. Not that Aegon had planned to die in battle today, but if there was ever a need for any extra motivation, it was in her. The future of his house - a heir of his name. He prayed for a child with his features, a child that would look more Targaryen than any half-breed Rhaenys birthed. Perhaps once the war was over, if Rhaenys had a child, they could be betrothed to his own, to quell any problems, to fortify Targaryen blood once more...

He pushed such thoughts from his mind. Without his whole focus on the task at hand, he'd be dead.

Red dragons fluttered in the wind on black banners, surrounded by a forest of orange and red. Aegon took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh air, as a cool breeze swept in from the North, sliding through the plates of his armor.

Dornish phalanxes advanced, shouting Rhoynish war cries as they marched in formation across the field. The arrows fired against them found only shields and spears blocking their downward spirals, and Aegon was pleased to see his host suffer little in the way of casualties. As the phalanxes advanced, archers emerged from between the shields, firing a quick barrage of shots at the Hightower forces. They did more damage than they received.

The two armies advanced at each other in full tilt, and when his phalanxes crashed into the waves, he nodded at his wife before pulling down the visor of his helm. Aegon spurred his horse towards the flank, where his cavalry were holding, and they began to advance. The heavy knights of the Reach were positioning themselves in opposition as the main lines of infantry, his and theirs, did battle. The fight between the cavalry on the flank was to be the decisive factor. If he broke them here, he could turn the entire Hightower army against the Honeywine and roll them up against the water. If his men broke, his phalanxes would be surrounded and routed.

The Dornish cavalry did not all fight like knights. At least half were light cavalry armed with shortbows and javelins, while the heavily armed knights, clad in their lamellar and carrying their feathered spears, made up the other half. It was the latter Aegon led, and as he drew his men towards the Reachmen, he ordered his light cavalry to ride in rotating circles, spinning around the Reach knights and peppering them with their missiles. The plan worked. The Reach knights, split in their intentions and confused about whom to fight, split their forces, some chasing after the lightly armed skirmishers they had no hope of catching, while others continued on towards Aegon's knights. He breathed heavily as he spurred his charger, and he heard nothing but the thundering of hooves and the rattling of his breath against the iron of his helm, and the beat of his heart in his ears. His eyes focused on naught but his own lance and the glittering knights charging towards him.

He shattered his lance against the first knight he met, but the man was tossed from his horse and died screaming as he was trampled by the horses all around him. Aegon tossed the hunk of useless wood at another enemy and drew his sword, battling on horseback, slicing through fallen knights and dismounting others. The Reachmen did not last long, their strength split by Aegon's tactics, and soon the heavy cavalry of the Hightowers began to rout. Instead of pursuing, Aegon rallied his knights and charged at the other half of the Reach's cavalry, those who had foolishly chosen to pursue his skirmishers. Whittled away by missiles, they broke even more quickly when taken in the rear, and soon the Hightower army had lost all its cavalry, as the knights fled down the Honeywine to the nearest ford, hoping to make it across to Oldtown.

The river began to run red with the blood seeping in from the gulches on the riverbank, as Aegon and his cavalry pinned the remaining Reach knights against the river. Many were killed, and many surrendered, but Aegon did not bother to deal with them just yet. He wheeled around his horse once more, this time grabbing a lance from a squire, before ordering yet another charge, this time right at the rear of the Hightower infantry.

Pressed against the anvil of his phalanxes, the enemy stood no chance against the hammer of his horse. He trampled countless enemies under his horse, and his sword left others headless or limbless as he carved through the remainder of the enemy like a hot knife through butter. They fled, only with nowhere to go, and many tried to cross the river to no avail, drowning or dying as arrows sprouted from their backs.

Before morning had turned into the afternoon, the Honeywine had more blood in it than honey, and soon Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, was the victor of the battle.

* * *

Oldtown opened the gates for them without resistance, seeing the results of the battle. Aegon marched through triumphantly with his forces, to gaping expressions from the townsmen who watched him, Rhaegar Targaryen in his black armor reincarnated, trot through their streets and towards the Old Tower. The Honeywine had not been his Trident, instead, it was his Redgrass Field.

Lady Kinvara, the priestess who had accompanied him to Westeros, rode alongside him as her troops of the Fiery Hand marched into the streets beside her. A nagging worry had started to grow in his mind, and when he glanced at her from the side of his view, he only felt it grow when he noticed that the priestess had stared at the Starry Sept from the moment she made it through Oldtown's gates.

"Does the Sept fascinate you so, Priestess?" Aegon asked her nonchalantly.

"Fascinate me? Perhaps in the way one is fascinated by a wart on an otherwise virgin face," she said with a chuckle. "You know that we have supported you thus far, and we support the will of R'hllor's chosen. The Lord of Light wishes to shine His grace down upon the people of Westeros, and your Starry Sept is a good place to start."

"What precisely do you mean by that?" Aegon asked.

As if in answer, his procession stopped, as breakaway members of the Fiery Hand returned. Aegon had not even seen them leave the procession, but they had, in greater numbers than he was aware. All of them carried something - some treasures, some people, and much wood, in different forms. Aegon gaped as he saw a man dressed in the finery of the Faith - the High Septon, he realized - dragged by them, kicking and screaming. Other men followed behind, also dragging septas, septons, and silent sisters.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aegon demanded, enraged, turning on Kinvara. The woman glanced at him coolly, with a bemused smile. The gathered crowd of townsmen, arrayed in the street, began to whisper and murmur among themselves disapprovingly. Ripples ran through the assembled throng, as more and more of the common folk pushed their way up to see what was happening. Aegon's own troops formed a tighter circle around him, creating a protective bubble in the cobbled streets as more and more people pressed in through the alleys and into the main thoroughfare.

"I have my orders from the Queen, Your Grace," Kinvara responded.

"And these orders are?"

He watched as the Fiery Hand began to pile wooden furniture and planks and broken barrels in a market square, pushing aside screaming merchants and their stalls. More and more of the zealot soldiers came, now carrying idols of the Seven from the septs, and the crowd only began to grow more and more enraged. Lord Fowler, who was on Aegon's left, tapped his shoulder. "Your Grace, the mob is growing restless. This is dangerous."

"Kinvara, I command you to stop," Aegon seethed.

The woman looked at him as if he was an insect, and his blood boiled and ran cold at the same time. They would not listen, and he became acutely aware that he had entered into a deal with the worst kind of demon - one that he did not control at all. "I do not take your commands, Your Grace. I serve only the Lord of Light, and his chosen."

Aegon watched with growing horror as the Fiery Hand piled the makeshift bonfires high, set them on fire, and began to toss idols and septons indiscriminately into the blazes. Screams erupted as the holy men and women of the Faith burned alive, and prayers broke out from the imprisoned priests, who begged for mercy. The crowd began to rage and throw things at the assembled soldiers, many of whom looked angry and confused as well, while the Fiery Hand formed a protective square around the market. Some townsmen met their swords and spears as they tried to break through and rescue their gods, and blood began to spill in the streets.

 _No. This is a mistake. I am to rule these people, not to spit on their gods and their faith. This... this is wrong,_ he thought. He ducked, as someone threw something at his head, and all hells broke loose. Aegon's soldiers and the Fiery Hand began to attack indiscriminately, stabbing and slicing their way through townspeople, and another battle broke out in the city itself as townsmen armed themselves with anything. A dagger was thrown somewhere near him, and Aegon heard a pained scream from Lord Fowler, who took the dagger in the torso. Rocks pounded against his armor, and he put his helmet back on, lowering the visor just in time to ward off a pebble that would have taken one of his eyes. His men steadied his horse as he dismounted and a guard of heavy footmen surrounded him, keeping the pressing mob at bay.

All thoughts vanished when he heard the terrifying screech overhead, and the sky went dark. The panic subsided as everyone - Fiery Hand, soldier, or townsman - began to look upwards, for the source of the sound.

For a moment, Aegon thought there was a giant black cloud blotting out the sun, but clouds did not have spikes, scales, or wings, and they certainly did not have diminutive silver-haired women riding on their backs.

Daenerys had come.


	29. The Children of Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys and Jon meet with the Daynes; Arya and Sansa are apprised of a situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Because of the broad stretch of time in Chapter 28, this chapter takes place before the capture of Oldtown. So Dany has not arrived yet.
> 
> Hi, I'm back after the holidays :) I hope you guys had a safe & happy end of 2020.
> 
> One more thing: keep in mind I'm going off the showverse dates. So Robert's Rebellion started in 280, not in 282 like in the books.

**Rhaenys - VIII**

The earliest rays of dawn filtered into their bedroom and orange-purple tendrils of light tickled her eyelids awake. Her vision fluttered before stabilizing on the mop of black curly hair she had buried her face into.

Jon turned his head slightly and looked down at her with a sleepy smile.

"Good morning, my love," he said softly. His fingers traced through her dark waves and came to a rest on her cheek. She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles, lips brushing against his coarse skin. 

"Good morning, husband." She let out a gentle yawn, the tiredness from the previous night still stiffening her limbs, and she tried to sit up a little. Her legs ached, and she fondly remembered their lovemaking from last night. "I'm rather tired because of you," she said, accusingly.

Jon stifled a yawn of his own and grinned at her. "The last two times were _your_ idea," he retorted, pulling her back down and into his arms. She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck as he held her waist against him.

"Today won't be too bad," Jon murmured. "We have to meet with the Daynes, but other than that, there isn't anything particularly pressing, other than planning out our next moves."

Rhaenys nuzzled into him. "Mmm. It feels like not much has changed, even though we are wed."

"I certainly don't love you any less than I did before we went to the heart tree," Jon said with a chuckle. "Only now, it is our realm to rule, side by side, as it ought to be."

"I am not queen regnant," Rhaenys observed. 

"Not in name, but you and I will rule together, Rhae. This realm needs your mind, your love for its beauties and wonders, your care for its people, as much as it needs me." He tenderly cupped her cheek and she kissed his fingers lovingly. A knock interrupted them. Jon called for whoever it was to enter, and the maidservants trooped in, bringing with them breakfast in bed. After setting the food down and changing the bedsheets, the help departed, and Jon and Rhaenys took advantage of it to lay about, enjoy each other's company as they ate. Jon told her of a particularly amusing incident where he and Robb Stark had frightened their younger siblings in the crypts of Winterfell. Jon laughed as he recalled how Robb had coated him with the contents of a whole sack of flour. When Robb lured the others in, and Sansa, Arya, and Bran wandered around, Jon jumped from behind a statue, shrieking like a banshee. Her husband smiled widely as he recalled the memory, and Rhaenys laughed as he described every inch of the event in detail.

"I cannot imagine Lady Stark was very amused at what you did," she said, in between chortles.

"No, she wasn't. Of course, Robb got off easy... I was mad, but he came to my room with sweetcakes after, and he told me he was sorry he got me in trouble. I could never stay angry with Robb for long."

Rhaenys rested her head on his chest. She had not had any fond memories, not while she and Aegon were hiding. There were times of love, of closeness, where the two had clung to each other. Aegon was all she had for such a long time, and some of those memories were warm, yes, but not pleasant. They had come on a knife's edge. Her whole life had, until now. In Jon's arms, by his side, as his queen; she thought she had finally found what she was looking for. 

"You loved Robb dearly," Rhaenys stated. "I wish I could have met him. And Rickon, and your father. Perhaps not Lady Stark."

Jon hummed and rubbed her arm with his hand lovingly. "I think I would have taken you to Lady Stark first. 'Look, my lady. This is my wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of the dragon, Princess and most beautiful woman of the Seven Kingdoms.'"

"I imagine she would have been shocked," Rhaenys mused. "She would have thought you seduced me with your bastardly wiles."

Jon gave her a lopsided grin. "Is that not what happened anyway, dear wife?"

Rhaenys laughed again and slapped his chest gently. "Very funny, Jon." A finger lazily trailed over his jaw, and she studied his rough beard. "I rather like it when you jest about. You seem much less..."

"Broody?"

"I was going to say old," she countered with a smile. She clambered out of bed, and he followed after, trapping her against the armoire in the corner. He pressed his lips to hers in a hungry kiss, and she wrapped her arms around him, moaning softly at the heat that rushed to settle between her thighs. When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead to his. "If we stay like this, we'll never meet with the Daynes."

"Fuck the Daynes," Jon said roughly. His grip loosened, however, and she giggled.

"I imagine if we ask nicely, that could be arranged. They are Dornish like me, after all." She laughed again. "In all seriousness, you were the first one to mention that we had to."

Jon sighed. "Aye, duty calls." That same melancholy filtered back in. Rhaenys knew it well; she had learned to pick up on his moods, and brooding was something that came easy to Jon. 

"Speak your mind, my love," she whispered into his ear. "Here, in our chambers, you should be able to confide. You do not have to carry the weight of the realm on you shoulders alone. I am here now, and I will help you bear this burden so long as we both live. It is ours to share."

Jon pressed another kiss to her lips, and then to her nose, and then her forehead. His arms tightened around her, and she pulled in close, inhaling deep - the scent of him, leathers, pine, and fresh Northern air, giving her comfort. "I'm a soldier, love. I've been a soldier all my adult life. I've known little else but war and pain and blood. Sometimes..." he trailed off. "Sometimes I think it's all I'll know."

Rhaenys tilted her head back to study his somber grey eyes. She pushed an errant curl away, tucking it behind his ear. "No, I don't think so. All things pass. These evil times will pass, and good times will come. If they do not, we will make them come." She smiled. "Besides, think of it this way. You toil for the good of the realm by day. Your reward is to spend your nights with your beautiful wife, where all you shall ever know is her love and comfort." When Jon chuckled at that, she pressed her lips to his cheek and said, "I wish we could stay here forever, like this."

She was not sure, but it seemed as if a sad memory passed through his eyes, even though he smiled at her. "Aye. We should stay here forever. We ought never to leave."

* * *

Dressing was an unusually long affair, and it involved more undressing than dressing, mixed with great pleasure, before she was fully clothed. She chose a gown of a muted orange in the Dornish fashion, given who they were meeting. Jon wore his traditional black, though it was not the rough leathers she had once seen him in. She had commissioned proper regal clothing for him; if they were to unite Westeros with diplomacy as well as force of arms, then he would have to look the part.

They chose to host Allyria and Edric Dayne for a small, private luncheon in one of the better rooms in Harrenhal; much of the keep was still in a severe state of disrepair, and the usable rooms were stuffed to occupancy. This room, at least, had actual, intentionally built windows, not holes or cave-ins that functioned as windows. A cool air blew into the room, but a fire kept any real chill at bay.

Rhaenys did not know what to make of Lady Allyria, as she studied the raven-haired woman carefully. She had the famed violet eyes of the Daynes - violet with no connection to Old Valyria, or so it was said. The Daynes, in fact, claimed origins from the First Men, not the Andals nor the Rhoynar. The rest of her was also out of place. Though she was tanned, it was not easy in the way it was for Dornishmen, and Rhaenys could tell she was naturally pale. Her features did not remind her of home.

She almost looked a Northerner, Rhaenys supposed. Likely the First Men making their presence known in the blood. 

Edric Dayne, on the other hand, seemed a comely lad. Rhaenys knew he could not be more than twenty; he revealed himself to be exactly that age. His hair was a pale blonde, falling to his chin and framing his noble face, and his eyes were more blue than purple, though in a certain glint they could be made lilac. He had a shy, good-natured smile, and he looked at Jon akin with worship. That was something Rhaenys had noted of almost anyone who had fought with Jon. He enraptured people who chose to put their faith in him. Edric Dayne was no exception to the rule.

"Gendry wrote and said you were with the Brotherhood during the entirety of the Great War, Lord Dayne," Jon commented, as they continued to nibble on the morsels the servants brought out. "Now that I think about it, I do remember a lad with features similar to yours."

"We crossed paths once to twice, Your Grace, though we never spoke nor had we cause to meet face to face," Edric said with a soft smile. "You were a busy man at the time. The busiest man in Westeros, though I think perhaps that has not changed. One task traded in for another."

Jon nodded. "Which is why, my lord, I think you'll understand better than most what exactly sort of threat we face." He sighed and tapped on the dining table twice, his eyes trailing out the window and into the blue sky. "Lady Allyria, you said there were things we might discuss. Before we do, will you permit me a question?"

Allyria dipped her head to him, and then to Rhaenys. "As Your Graces command. I would be more than happy to answer."

Jon looked at Rhaenys before continuing. "Why is it that two Dornish nobles are currently seeking refuge at the court of the Storm King?"

"It is part of my larger tale, Your Grace, and I fear I must tell you all of it. Your Graces must know what has happened in Dorne and what is coming."

"We know that my cousin Arianne plotted a coup and took over. She rules as Princess of Dorne," Rhaenys ventured. She felt a small twinge of regret in her heart. She had wanted badly to see her family. When word had come over that almost all of them were dead - her uncles both gone, many of the Sand Snakes killed, Trystane and Quentyn both lost - she had been heartbroken, but she knew Arianne still remained. Part of her desperately wished for some kind of peaceful resolution, for Arianne to abandon their original plans and to return to the fold. It was a fool's folly, but it was the one she allowed herself to entertain.

Allyria sighed. "That is not all. She had outside help. A contingent of Red Priests arrived in Sunspear that night, along with your brother Aegon."

Rhaenys froze. Jon's mouth opened in surprise.

"Aegon currently rules in Dorne alongside Arianne, though very few are aware that he is in Sunspear consorting with her. I do not know much more, though I have a few allies still in the city. Arianne is marshaling for war," Allyria continued grimly. Edric's face was stony and thin-lipped.

"I was in the palace the night of the coup," Edric said. "I barely escaped with my life. Manfrey was killed along with his wife. All the other minor scions and branches of the Martells have fallen in line, as have the lords of the Dornish Marches."

"Aegon... here?" Rhaenys said, dumbstruck. The plan had never called for Aegon to arrive early. He and Daenerys were supposed to marshall their forces in Essos and then land in Sunspear together. Yet there was still no word of Daenerys overseas, only of a great army marching out of Asshai and conquering its way through Essos. The last thing they'd heard was that the Bay of Dragons had run red with slaughter, and the conquerors had their eyes set on the Free Cities next.

"Is that why Gendry didn't come? He said something about trouble in the Dornish Marches..." Jon said. "If there is a threat of invasion in the Stormlands..."

"We can potentially negotiate an alliance," Rhaenys said quickly, tearing herself away from her thoughts of Aegon. She knew of Jon's friendship with Gendry Baratheon, and Arya's feelings for the man, but she did not want to risk Jon's chivalry rearing its head when an opportunity to assimilate the Stormlands presented itself. Not only would they cement the uneasy peace that Jon's conquest of the Riverlands had brought with the Crownlander lords, but the North, the Iron Islands, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands would all be united under their banner, leaving aside only the Westerlands, the Reach, and Dorne. 

"His Grace would welcome that," Allyria said carefully. "But I was not sent to conduct such negotiations, only to inform you of what has transpired; a sign of goodwill borne out of the friendship and camaraderie shared by King Gendry and King Aemon."

"Gendry isn't stupid," Edric said. All eyes fell on him, and he looked at his aunt and Rhaenys in turn. Rhaenys sized him up, and in that, she saw a commonality between Dayne and her husband - straightforwardness. "You may think me straightforward and unwilling to play the Game, but I think the King would agree with me. There is little time to spend playing the Game when all our fates are at risk when we stare into the face of a great enemy."

"Aye," Jon said hoarsely. "Daenerys Targaryen reborn is near a threat to us all as the Night King and his army were." Dayne simply dipped his head in deferential agreement. 

"One more thing, Your Grace," Allyria said softly, directing her attention to Rhaenys more so than Jon. "I believe Arianne will try to wed herself to Aegon. Forgive me for my bluntness, but surely the original plan was for Aegon to take you and Daenerys as sister-wives when beginning his conquest, was it not?"

Rhaenys nodded mutely. 

"To that end, I believe Arianne will step in. She is ambitious and brave, and to earn herself a seat aside the throne of all Westeros... that is a tempting proposition," Allyria said. "Of course, I have never met Daenerys Targaryen, and I do not know if she would approve."

"She would... if she cares about Aegon's succession," Jon said quietly. "Daenerys is barren - or, at the very least, believes herself to be so."

"How do you know?" Rhaenys asked with surprise. Jon had never mentioned this before, and Daenerys certainly had not. This changed everything - if Aegon could not rely on Daenerys for children, he would have needed Rhaenys for a stronger mixture of Targaryen blood. His children by Arianne would only have a bit more than a quarter Valyrian ancestry, once Arianne's own Targaryen blood was accounted for. Seven Hells, Gendry Baratheon had near as much Targaryen blood as would Aegon's heirs. 

"She told me," Jon said. "She thought it might dissuade me, when we first met. She told me the dragons were the only children she'd ever have... and as it were, I'm not sure being dead helped the case any, even if her body is hale and whole on the outside. I was dead for hours and when I was reborn, I felt like someone had stuffed me into a trunk that was too small for me. I wondered for weeks if my hands were my hands, if my flesh was my flesh, or if my thoughts were even mine. And I was dead only for _hours_ ," Jon repeated. "She was dead for... however long it took Drogon to fly to Asshai. A fortnight? Longer? She would have been rotting when they threw her into the fire."

Rhaenys felt horrified. Jon had never really spoken about his resurrection - to anybody, she was sure. Not in this level of detail. The feelings he evoked were terrible in and of themselves, but it hurt her heart to think of Jon hurt, dying, gone... and then brought back into his own body, only to feel out of place inside it. What would Daenerys have felt?

She put that aside for now. "And a hundred innocents alongside," Rhaenys said bitterly, thinking instead of the cost of her rebirth. "Their life for hers; that was the trade."

Jon blinked. "There was no sacrifice of life needed for me," he said. He turned to Edric. "Did Lord Beric...?"

"No," Edric said, his blonde hair fluttering as he shook his head no. "Never that I saw. Thoros would simply... well, it didn't involve human sacrifice, that much I know."

"Aye, and for me, Melisandre took but a few locks of my hair," Jon added. His countenance grew troubled. "If Melisandre was right, I was brought back because her fire god had need of me. Lord Beric had a part to play in the Great War, but what purpose does Daenerys' resurrection serve? Is it because the Red Priests believed she was Azor Ahai, not I?"

Jon's logic troubled Rhaenys greatly. What exactly was Daenerys here to do for the Lord of Light? What could she do that he would not try to work through Jon, if Jon truly was Azor Ahai? She shivered when she remembered the moment Daenerys Targaryen walked out of the flame. She remembered for a moment, how it had seemed as if an old, wizened man had walked out of the flames, his beard matted and filthy, and his fingernails stretching past his knees in length. She knew the face. 

Aerys, Second of his Name. 

Rhaenys shook herself out of the fog of memory and hallucination before the lines could begin to blur. "I think it folly to try and divine the will of gods," she said sharply. "Every Red Priest I ever knew that claimed to see one thing or another in his fires was oft wrong. The gods, if they should speak at all, speak in ambiguities. Charlatans feast on ambiguities."

A door hinge creaked; Rhaenys heard a silent padding behind her, one she knew by instinct to be Ghost. The great white wolf came by her first, sniffing at her fondly, before passing by his master with a gentle nudge of the snout. He bypassed Edric Dayne entirely, coming to a stop next to Allyria. Red eyes stared into greyish-blue ones. Rhaenys searched Allyria's face to see if there was any fear, but she found none. Instead, there was wonderment, and curiosity, and something else, almost like a kinship.

"He's marvelous," Allyria breathed. Jon looked at her curiously.

"He likes you," Jon stated. "Odd. He's only that way around my closest family, and perhaps Tormund Giantsbane and Samwell, our grand maester." Allyria looked up at him with a wry smile. She placed an old leatherbound journal on the table, pushing it towards them. Rhaenys regarded it with a growing sense of foreboding. There was an engraved star on the journal, just like the symbol of the Daynes. The color of the parchment had yellowed and aged, blackened around the corners and folded at points. There were slight tears, and the leather binding had developed a worn patina. 

Jon reached for it, but hesitated before opening the pages. He gave Rhaenys a searching look, as if she possessed some kind of answer he dearly desired. "What is this, my lady?" he asked of Allyria.

"Something I lack the heart to say out loud. Mayhaps it would be more believable coming from her instead."

"Her?" Jon asked.

Rhaenys could see a pained look cross Allyria's face. "Please, read the journal, Your Grace."

Jon took a deep breath. He opened the journal and thumbed through the first few pages quickly. The script was small, loopy, and pretty - a woman's hand, if Rhaenys had to guess. She only caught flashes of words - "tourney" and "Harrenhal", and one date - 280. She was alive at the time, just an infant; Aegon had yet to be born, and Jon did not exist either. Jon's brow furrowed and his pace slowed down. He lingered on the pages, holding them close enough for her to read. She craned over.

_23rd Fifth Moon, 281 A.C._

_The child kicks more often now. I think it is a she. Kicking aside, the babe is gentle. When I sleep, I imagine the little wolf-pup in me. I wonder if she shall have my eyes or Ned's, whether she will be born with dark locks or fair curls, whether she shall look like a child of Dorne or a child of the North. Most of all, I wonder if her father will come south for her. I think he will. Ned is so unlike the other wolves, and I miss him terribly._

_I curse this war. I don't know what Elia and the Prince were thinking. I know Rhaegar had his dreams to chase, and those dreams were in the form of Lyanna Stark, but I shall always dream of a world where Brandon lived and Ned was mine. We were unpledged. It would have been a good match._

_I never cared for whether I got Winterfell or a holdfast. I never wanted anything quite as much as I wanted my quiet wolf._

_If I shall not have him, then at least I shall have a little wolf pup of mine own. Thank the Seven I was born a Dornishwoman._

_29th, Seventh Moon, 281 A.C._

_She is the sweetest thing I have laid eyes on, and yet I wish little more than to die._

_She is almost all her father. I have given her only my eyes and my nose; the wolf blood is strong otherwise. And yet it is the eyes everyone sees first. She shall not be mistaken for anything other than a Dayne._

_Mama's gift is sweet. My little pup shall not grow up without a name, even if Sand is no real black mark of consequence in Dorne. She is more a Snow than the squalling babe in Ned's arms, anyway. They look a little alike. I wonder if they shall come to know one another when they are grown. I certainly hope so._

_Ned cannot be with me, and I cannot be with him. Brandon gave him to me, and then Brandon took him away when he died. My quiet wolf is no longer mine. I have hidden her from Ned. He must not know. I do not know what his blasted honor would have him do, but Ned will already damn himself for the little one. He cannot damn himself for two. For the love I bore Arthur, I shall defend what he died to defend as well._

_That news hit me the worst. Arthur is dead. Ned told me. What little light there was in my life is now gone. They are all gone, all of them. Only my child remains, but even her blue eyes cannot spark it within me._

_5th, Eighth Moon, 281 A.C._

_To my child,_

_I wish I had the strength to live for you, my little one. I never wanted you to think that you were unwanted, or that I died because I hated you. Nothing could be further from the truth. I wanted you almost as much as I wanted life itself._

_Yet I stopped wanting life. All the light of it was extinguished. I made sure that you would grow up a Dayne. If you are reading this, perhaps Mama and Papa have told you that you had a sister once, a sad sister who passed away around the time you were born. I am not sure what they will say about me._

_But I want you to know this, at least. You had two parents who loved you, who wanted you dearly, who would have been wedded under the gods. You should have been Allyria Stark. You ought to be Allyria Snow, or Sand. But you will be Allyria Dayne, for as long as it is necessary._

_Your father is Lord Eddard Stark, my love. When you read this, I will not know the circumstances of the world, for I will be gone. I do not know if you will ever be able to go to Ned. I hope you will. I hope one day you will meet your siblings and have brothers and sisters of your own. I hope you shall find your own happiness, one like that which I had, if but for a short while._

_I love you, little one. Mama loved you. Never doubt that. As to the rest, I hope you shall find it in your heart to forgive me._

_Love,_

_Your Mother,_

_Ashara Dayne_

Jon snapped the book shut, causing Rhaenys to jump in surprise. She tried to corral her thoughts, but they ran in many different directions, shouting over each other in loud voices. In a strangled voice, Jon called outside the room.

"Ser Brienne?"

Brienne opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind her and standing at attention. Her usually stoic face was tempered with a recognition of the emotion in Jon's voice. 

"Your Grace?"

"Tell... tell my sisters I need to see them. Urgently."

Brienne nodded and bowed, but then paused. A slight frown passed over her features. "Your sisters, Your Grace? Lady Sansa as well?"

"Both," Jon murmured, half-dazed. Brienne left; Jon's eyes traveled everywhere in the room, everywhere save in Allyria's direction. They met hers, and she could see a well of tears brimming behind them. Though her own thoughts were scrambled, she reached a hand out of instinct, and Jon grasped it as if desperately searching for any kind of handhold.

Rhaenys looked over at Allyria, whose calm, sad demeanor had broken down into an expression that was half terrified, half despairing, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Edric had his hand on her shoulder, and she was trying desperately to meet Jon's eyes.

 _Her cousin's eyes,_ she realized.

"My lord," Rhaenys asked gently, nodding at Edric. "Is this... is this diary true?"

"I believe it is," he confirmed somberly. "My father left it to me, with a note. I only found it when I returned to Starfall after the wars. I do not think he would have given it to me if he knew it to be a falsehood." He paused. His lips worked as if he was debating whether or not to add something more. In the end, he decided to. "My nickname has always been Ned. My family... they were never opposed to it. They had once known a Ned they held in the highest esteem."

So many thoughts ran through Rhaenys' head at the moment, but one emotion triumphed over the rest - pity. Pity for Lady Allyria, child of a mother who had chosen death over her babe; pity for Ashara Dayne, who had a life growing in her and happiness with her beloved ahead of her, ripped apart by a rebellion based on a lie; pity for Jon, who she knew would feel responsible for all this. He was a product of that which set the Kingdoms ablaze and caused so much suffering. She knew her husband could easily indulge in self-loathing, but she intended not for him to fall into it. He would regard any child born into his own circumstances as blameless, but he would not extend that same courtesy to himself.

"Jon?" she said softly. She cupped his cheek with a tender caress, gently nudging him to look at her. "My love?"

His eyes swam with emotions. 

"I think you'd best speak to Lady Allyria. If for no other reason than she seems to be taking this as hard as you are yourself," she reminded him softly. "I'm here with you."

He finally tore his eyes away from her and trained them on Allyria instead. The two looked at each other with... Rhaenys could not place it exactly. Perhaps it was a mixture of things. Wariness, surprise, sadness, shock... but longing, too. The longing of kin, of family.

Jon stood up a little shakily, pushing his chair into the table and walking around it towards Allyria. She left her seat too, and when Jon was only a few paces in front of her, she bowed deeply, sinking to her knees. Before she could sink fully, Jon stepped forward and stopped her, hands under her forearms, lifting her gently back up.

"Your Grace," Allyria whispered.

Jon gently tilted her face up, studying her features. Rhaenys had never known Lord Stark, did not know exactly what features to search for, but Jon had evidently found whatever he was looking for. And now that Rhaenys looked, too, there were some commonalities - her cheekbones and facial structure were not unlike Arya's, and the grey in her blueish eyes came from the Starks. 

Ghost seemed to sense the shift, as well. He curled up next to his master and Allyria.

"I knew I recognized something in your face," Jon said. "I was seeing my father's face. Your father's face." A look of guilt crept into his eyes, and Rhaenys felt hurt in her heart. "I'm sorry that he was my father and not yours, as he should have been. We should have grown up siblings in Winterfell."

"Yes. A great many things should have happened, Your Grace, but they did not," Allyria said sadly. "The events that made us would not allow for it."

"How long have you known, Lady Allyria?" Rhaenys asked.

"Since the end of the war," she replied. "Ned found the diary and the materials after the Great Council. I thought about going North, to meet Lady Sansa, but then I heard of the war. Arianne's coup happened, and then I simply wished to survive."

"I'm glad you did," Jon whispered hoarsely.

The door behind them, leading into the room, squeaked on its hinges. Rhaenys turned, as did the rest. Arya walked into the room, with Sansa towering against her, using the smaller Stark for support. She met Rhaenys' eyes first, and gave her a respectful nod and a small smile.

"You called for us, Your Grace?" Arya called teasingly. Her mirth vanished when she saw the closeness between Jon and Allyria, and the tears streaming still on the Dornishwoman's face.

"What's the matter?" she asked. Rhaenys put a hand on Arya's shoulder and urged her forward with a soft smile.

Jon gave both his sisters a wan smile. "Arya, Sansa... this is Allyria Dayne. She's Father's child. She's your... our sister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *deep breath*
> 
> Alright, I know there's a little bit of controversy about whether Brandon or Ned is Allyria's father. Both are compelling, but I think it's Ned for a handful of reasons:
> 
> \- Harwin and Edric both say that Ned and Ashara were lovers  
> \- Edric actually claims to have heard this from Allyria, who is the subject of the theory  
> \- Barristan does not name a particular Stark as "dishonoring Ashara", which is the reason many think it's Brandon and not Ned, but keep in mind that a) POVs are biased and b) of course he would think that Ashara was dishonored. He loved her, and it was apparently unrequited. That doesn't automatically make Brandon the culprit, IMO. Barristan also doesn't KNOW, he's going off what was supposedly common knowledge.  
> \- At Harrenhal, it was Brandon who wooed Ashara into dancing with Ned, FOR Ned. Let's say the entire court saw Brandon Stark 'flirting' with Ashara Dayne at the tourney - tongues would wag, without having heard the subject of conversation, which the Reeds confirm to be Brandon basically being the GOAT wingman  
> \- Edric seems to think the reason Ashara committed suicide is because of a broken heart. Presumably, this information also comes from Allyria. That's not definitive, but it's strange that she apparently waited months to commit suicide since Brandon was long dead by then. However, Ned had taken Jon to Starfall at that point, very recently, and given Ashara the news that a) he was now married to Catelyn (and thus could not marry Ashara) and b) Arthur was dead by his and Howland's hands.  
> \- The stillborn (if real and not a story to cover up Allyria's true heritage could have been anybody, including possibly the mysterious Wylla's child.  
> \- I do think, with how Ned still regards Brandon fondly, that his brother did not sweep the rug out from under him and fuck the girl he was infatuated with. I also don't think that's in Brandon's character. We know that Brandon and Barbrey Dustin had an affair and that Brandon was supposedly a womanizer... but we also knew that he was stupidly protective of family. While I can see him seducing Ashara, I cannot see him seducing Ashara WHILE HE KNOWS Ned loves her.
> 
> Anyway, that's my preemptive defense of N+A=A instead of B+A=A. Have at it in the comments ;)


	30. The Shadow in the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragonrider returns to the smoking ruins of the Doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: THIS IS A SLIGHT FLASHBACK.  
> Our final major POV character is introduced.

**Daenerys - I**

She clambered off Drogon's back. Salt and smoke and ash filled the air. Rivers of magma smoked all about her and great ruins towered over her. Crumbling glories of a long-gone empire lay scattered about her feet.

Drogon let out a growl behind her, snarling through his great teeth. Daenerys Targaryen took a deep breath. Where others would have suffocated on the foul fumes and the putrid stench, she found it like a sweet perfume, or like honey in the morning. She had never smelled anything so sweet as this.

The sun did not shine here, not directly. She glanced up, and saw only the faint outline of it in the sky, obscured by the clouds. They were near black, made of smog rather than water. If it rained here, the rain must have been like acid from the sky.

She walked through the great columns. Her boots crunched against the pebbly ashes under her feet, sinking here and there, even along the once fine-cobbled roads of the great Freehold. She had flown here south, avoiding the path of her army, lest she reveal her position. Not that it mattered greatly anymore. When her foolish niece had turned traitor, she knew she would try to warn the Westerosi. And yet who would listen to her?

 _They all will listen to her,_ a voice hissed in her head. _Since the foul Stark girl took her, likely back to that fucking traitor..._

It would not matter. The last reports she had deigned to listen to told her the Great Traitor had gone north into exile. She would deal with him last, when all else was ashes.

A great ruin of a wall stood in front of her. Once, it might have repelled all invaders, letting their armies dash against it in futility. Now great gaping holes dotted the darkened and burnt white stone. She picked her way through one of these walls, jumping over a small lava stream as she crossed into the city limits. Even in ruin, the towers that rose up into the sky were among the most magnificent sights men and women had ever laid eyes on. Great sphinxes, gargoyles, and dragons of marble and stone lined the great avenues of Valyria, or stood guard proud on the high spires that jutted into the sky. 

Once, this place was the center of the world. Now, nothing lived here. Or so people said.

People certainly lived in Tyria, the great port that had linked to Valyria on the black-cobbled dragon roads that spanned the entirety of the Freehold once. Though they were a stunted, malicious people, deformed and vile in appearance, Daenerys still noted the silver hair and purple eyes among them. Such was the fate of the last remaining descendants of the great empire of her people.

The last remaining descendants save her, Aegon, Rhaenys, and...

Aemon. Jon Snow. Aemon Targaryen, son of her brother and that wolf whore from the North.

She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she delved deeper into the great ruins. It was silent for the most part, though she occasionally heard tumbling or rustling. It always sounded far off, and so she continued undeterred. Drogon clawed along the ground behind her.

The avenue led her straight to the middle of the city, where she arrived at a great spire, greater than all the others. This one had a top that could not be seen from the ground, for it rose above the smog that clouded the city's upper layer. She could simply fly to the top, but what called her here was not there. There were great iron doors flung wide open at the base. The entryway into the darkened halls of the spire was as wide as twenty men.

Enough for a fully grown dragon to clamber through, she realized.

She made her way into the spire. The oddity of Valyria was that for a ruin, there were remarkably few skeletons littering the place. On the other hand, it looked as if the great treasures of the place were still largely untouched. She knew a few foolhardy explorers came here in search of one treasure or another, but only one in a hundred would leave with their lives, and fewer still with anything of value. Something claimed their lives. She wondered if it was simply the toxic environs, or something else.

Books lined the walls and great treasures lay untouched in front of her, yet there were no bones, not of dragons nor of men.

What called to her was not up the spire, but below. The ground floor was a great hexagonal room with yawning arches. In the center was a set of stairs that descended below, just as wide as the entryway that she had come in, and that Drogon had fit through with ease. She retrieved a torch and lit it, descending down the stairs.

A foul whispering began to fill her mind. It was not the voice that had been with her since she had come back, no. That voice sounded... familiar. Sometimes she could have sworn it was Viserys speaking to her - an aged Viserys. 

This one was foul and it spoke in a speech to her that she did not recognize. It was not Valyrian, or at least, not any form of Valyrian she had ever heard before, but she knew what it was saying. It was calling to her.

_Come to me, come to me, for I hunger in the deep._

_Come to me, come to me, for I must slake my thirst._

_Come to me, come to me, and wield me._

It called to her, and she would answer.

The stairs went down endlessly. There were no railings, and pitch-blackness surrounded her on all sides. She stopped, out of curiosity, and pulled another torch from the pack she had saddled to Drogon. Lighting it, she tossed it down the side of the stairs. It plunged downwards into the darkness, down and down and down until the orange light was little more than a speck. 

Then it fell further down until she could no longer see it, and it was pitch black once more.

That cold voice she heard in her mind only laughed at her. She smiled and continued her downwards journey.

Drogon was unusually quiet as he followed along behind her, dropping fifty steps at a time. Aside from the rush of his wings as he glided from perch to perch, she heard little else for a long while. At least, she estimated as such; in the darkness, she lost count of the seconds, minutes, or hours. The light from above vanished soon, too, and she knew she had gotten deep into the underbelly of whatever it was that lay in the belly of this spire. 

It grew hotter the deeper she delved, and soon the foul whispering was not the only noise she heard. There was skittling all about her, and she knew she was not alone. Yet nothing stepped out of the darkness to confront her, and nothing hindered her way. She continued her descent, with only a growing symphony of noise to accompany her.

She did not know how long it took, but she eventually arrived at the bottom of the pit. Looking up, there was not even a remote hint of the light from the entrance. It was not that, however, that held her attention for long.

Despite being at the bottom of what was just a pit, there was a glowing red light that filled the ground. It was not bright until she neared the floor, and it was not bright even now, but a dull crimson. The ground was flat, like it had been made thus. At the far end of the cavern floor, across from where the steps brought her, there was a horrific statue.

Daenerys had never seen anything like it. She had heard of the gods of Valyria - Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar, Syrax... all the deities the great dragons of her family had been named after. This was not one of them, not from what she knew about the subject. Those deities came in the shape of dragons, and yet the one in front of her was not a dragon, not at all.

It looked like a man clad in armor, though the face was nothing like that of a man. It was foul, pointed, with teeth filed into fangs. The eyes were large and the ears like knives. He wore a large conical helmet with spikes jutting from the sides, and his armor was sharp and pointed. The whispering was loudest here, and she knew now that it came from the statue. Whatever it was, it spoke to her.

The eyes glowed red, and she heard it again in her mind, coherently.

_Welcome, child. It has been an age since fresh blood and meat supplicated before me._

Despite herself, Daenerys shivered. "Who are you?" she called out.

 _The glory of Valyria,_ hissed the voice into her mind. _I am the raiser of the Fourteen Flames. I am Valyria's birth and Valyria's doom._

"Speak plainly. Do you have what I seek?" Daenerys challenged.

The voice laughed in her head, a horrible, maddening noise that chewed through her mind and burrowed deep in there. _I have sorely missed the fire of you little silver haired mortals,_ it said. _Sometimes I regret what happened... but I did warn them._

"Warned who? What is it you regret, and who are you?" she said.

_I am of many names. Some called me Balmolag, others Nagash. To your people, I was known as Khaela. It was I you called upon when your great dragon armies marched to war. Every life taken, every drop of blood spilled, every soul freed of its fleshy prison was done in my name. For your devotion, I rewarded your people with the greatest empire the world had ever seen. I had but one simple directive - worship me here, at this temple I gave._

The crimson floor brightened, illuminating the cavern walls around her. The giant stairs behind her lit up, and she could see them rise further and further, spiraling towards the exit, which was still obscured. The great statue of Khaela was more visible to her now.. She could have sworn that the god's head was faced slightly to her side when she had first seen it. Now, it looked as if it had been looking at her the whole time.

 _I told them not to delve deep in search of their precious stones, but they did. I could have forgiven those transgressions, but they burrowed into the hearts of the Fourteen Flames. They used spells I had taught them against me. Me, the CREATOR of those old magics._ The voice laughed cruelly. _What fools. Had they not bitten the hand that fed them, their great empire would still be here. Their insolence cost them; they awoke my fury, and my Fourteen Flames swallowed them whole. Nothing remains of Valyria but me._

Daenerys looked at the god statue in the eye. "To me, it sounds like you simply killed off your own worshippers. A shame, really." Her voice did not belie the small twinge of fear she felt, but she was glad for it. it was the first fear she'd felt since she awoke from death. and it made her feel alive.

The hissing voice grew quiet. In its place, loud shrieks split the cavern air. Daenerys heard a great rustling. She looked up, waving her torch, and commanded Drogon to breathe fire in the cave. When he did, she almost wished he hadn't.

The great flames lit up the cavern walls, and as far as her eyes could see, there were _things_ crawling down the stones, cruel-looking things in vaguely humanoid shapes, with large misshapen heads, missing noses, spiked ears, like grotesque imitations of the god statue. 

Only when one finally drew close did she get a good glance at its silver hair and narrow purple eyes. The irises were pale, almost white from the forced vestigiality that arose from living in the darkness, but with a hint of the old color that had once been so vibrant in them. Her breath left her as she realized she was looking at what once was a Valyrian.

_Do you like my children? My lovely Fallen. I could keep you here forever until you became one of them, you know. A great beauty like you... a bride for the Bloody Handed God. I would give you such delicious pain, so delicious you would call it a pleasure. I would take your lovely nose, for who needs to smell down here where there is no new air? I would give you beautiful ears, like mine, so that you could hear in the dark, and I would lighten those violet eyes for the sight you will no longer need._

Summoning her courage, she planted her feet firmly in the ground. Drogon drew around her, roaring at the Fallen, keeping them at bay with his jaws and his wings and his tail.

"That would be a waste, Khaela. I can give you what it is you desire, and in turn, you can help me accomplish what I want."

The voice was silent for a while. Then, the Fallen began to ascend upwards, away from her. Daenerys let out a breath she didn't know she was holding as the foul creatures climbed back up the cavern walls and disappeared into hidden alcoves that she still could not see.

_Go on._

"You say you are a god of blood. I have much blood to offer you. Help me slay my enemies and I shall give you all the death you hunger so desperately for," Daenerys offered, strengthening her voice. "Have you fed since the Doom? Have you not grown hungry in the meantime? What is left here but bones picked clean? Aid me and I shall sate your needs."

The voice grew quiet again.

_I know what it is you have come seeking. There is a space beneath my statue. Come and see._

Daenerys forced her feet to move forward. She neared the statue. The air seemed heavier and heavier the closer she came, and soon it was near suffocating. She fell to her knees and groped about, trying to find what it is she was looking for. It was large, and only when she found a leather strap around it was she able to pull it away from the statue. 

It was a great horn, six feet long, bigger than even her. It was as black as night - nay, blacker still, for even the cavern seemed bright next to it. Glyphs were carved into the surface in the old Valyrian script, and there were bands of red and gold around it. The horn was glossy, and she could see herself reflected in it, though strangely, the reflection looked very little like her. There was silver hair, yes, and purple eyes... but it was far too tall, far too wizened and skinny, and she certainly never had a filthy beard hanging from her face like her reflection had. She did not want to stare at it too long, for she could feel it penetrating into her mind and wrenching through her defenses. She tore her eyes away from it, and towards Drogon, who had begun shrieking and backing away from her. The dragon stared at the horn like it was causing it pain. She'd never heard such noises from Drogon, at least, not since Drogon had been but a hatchling.

"Drogon!" Daenerys cried out. "Drogon, come to me!" It was no use, however. Drogon could not get away from her faster.

 _Use it,_ urged Khaela. _Use it on him._

Daenerys hesitated. Drogon was her child. She was his mother. If he was having this kind of a reaction to the horn, then how could she possibly subject him to it? How could she put her child in danger?

And yet, a oddly calm voice pointed out to her, how could she let Drogon continue to suffer when it was unnecessary, and so easily avoided? One blow of the horn, and Drogon would no longer know pain, or doubt, or worry. He would be at peace.

She made her decision, hoping that her child would forgive her. She put it to her lips and blew. The horn was deep, and it shook the cavern walls as the noise echoed in the great chamber and traveled up the walls, as if looking to escape.

Drogon screeched like never before, beating his wings as if he tried to get further still, but it was as if he could not. He tried to lift himself up, to fly out, but though the cavern was large enough for him to walk through on his haunches, he could not raise himself. Instead, it was as if the horn drove him to come closer, and closer, though he continued to shriek as if he did not want to.

Daenerys had felt nothing but fear when Drogon had reacted the way he had, but now that fear was gone. There was no worry, and no regret. Something in her had changed. She knew she had made the right decision. 

_You have control over him now. He cannot break the command,_ Khaela informed her. _Nor will the dragons you seek to pacify with this._

"How pacified will they be?" Daenerys asked. She glanced at Drogon, who still struggled, though his struggle had grown weaker and now there was strange docility in his eyes - no, not docility, she corrected herself. It was pure obedience. Servitude.

Drogon's eyes were no longer orange, like flame. Now they glittered emerald, like wildfire.

 _Pacified enough. Once the spell has fully worked its magic, you could walk up to one of them, saw off its head, and it would not make a noise of complaint,_ Khaine said with glee. _Now_ _go forth and spill blood in my name, Daenerys of the House Targaryen._ _The other one in you was eager to sate me. You will listen to him now, I think. That is the wonderful thing about my horn, and about all my great gifts. They... speak to you._ A great mocking laugh rang in her head, and then it abated, and then her mind was silent.

For a moment.

She looked back at the horn, at the reflection. It was clearer now, though it was still not her... and yet, it was her at the same time. There was something familiar about the over-long fingernails, the matted beard...

The reflection in the horn smiled at her. She smiled back.

 _Hello, daughter of mine,_ whispered a cold, high voice in her head. This one she recognized immediately, even though she'd never heard it in life.

 _Hello, Father,_ she said to the reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Nagash, Khaela are both references to Warhammer. Balmolag (Molag Bal) and the Fallen (Falmer) are references to the Elder Scrolls. :) What can I say, I love my fantasy genre references.
> 
> A lot of this worldbuilding isn't based on any real canon. Instead, I'm working off the gaps in the canon. Valyria is this big place of mystery. We don't know what caused the Doom, and we don't know what kind of strange things still exist there.
> 
> I promise we aren't veering off into crazy fantasy land. GoT is mostly grounded (when you discount the magic swords, prophecies, magic, dragons, and zombies... ok, maybe it's not THAT grounded, it's just not Tolkien-esque) but I don't want to toss in Macguffins without some semblance of spice and flavor attached to it. And I'm a worldbuilding addict.
> 
> So... do you guys think Daenerys is possessed by Aerys? Or do you think she's just plain mad with revenge, and that using Dragonbinder just shattered any sanity she might have had left? I was vague intentionally.
> 
> AGAIN: MINOR FLASHBACK, THIS TAKES PLACE PRIOR TO CHAPTER 28.


	31. The Southern Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allyria is presented with a choice. Arya embarks on a mission. Sansa is asked for advice.

**Arya - III**

Arya watched Sansa flip through the pages of the journal. Then, her eyes traveled from her sister to Allyria.

Who, according to Jon, and purportedly this journal, was also their sister.

The features were obvious, once one knew what to look for, especially in comparison to Edric. Her face was long, like a Stark's, and she had the North in her coloring and her hair. Many Salty Dornishmen had a similar appearance, and it was something that could be easily hidden when there was no talk or suspicion of a heritage other than Dorne. Like Jon, she thought. Everyone thought him the spitting image of a true Stark, especially when put side-by-side with Robb, but again when you knew what to look for...

Allyria Dayne - Sand, Snow, Dayne, Stark, all the names jumbled around in Arya's head - sat there nervously, across the table. One leg bounced ever so slightly - a nervous fidgetiness that Arya herself had once shared. A small smile creased Arya's cheeks. The only noise was the rustling of pages, the soft tap of Allyria's foot against the stone, Jon leaning back in his chair every few minutes, and the crackling fire that warmed the room and cast an orange glow over the stone walls. A window gave sight to the starry sky outside. A lone falling star swam through the inky canvas, hurtling toward gods only knew where, as if marking the occasion.

Sansa looked up, first at Jon, her eyes a little watery. She said nothing, but Arya saw in it the hidden thanks, the small ways Sansa spoke with her eyes rather than her mouth. Jon could have kept her in house arrest and told her later, but Brienne had fetched them both on his orders. Jon nodded curtly in response. Arya did not think he had forgiven or forgotten; she herself certainly had not.

But it was the start of something.

The journal was placed back onto the table. Sansa leaned over and shifted it towards Arya. She took it and started to peruse the pages.

Even as her eyes scanned the lines, her ears perked up at the conversation that was no doubt about to begin around her. The telltale sign was Sansa clearing her throat.

"You are who we thought Jon was," she said slowly. Arya peeked up at Allyria's reaction before returning back to the journal. The Dayne woman looked at Jon, rather than Sansa.

Jon shifted in his seat and sighed. "Ashara Dayne's writings make it clear that were it not for me, you would have gone North with Father," he said to Allyria. The guilt lacing his words was clear. Then his voice took on an angry turn. "How could he choose me over his own child?"

"Because Father would never break his promise to Aunt Lyanna," Sansa murmured. Her voice was soft as if she was speaking only to herself. "That oath, once given-"

"He was bound to Robert Baratheon by oaths of friendship and brotherhood," Jon argued forcefully. Sansa flinched at the anger in his tone. "Yet he betrayed those to commit treason for me."

"Those oaths were bread and salt. They are what people decide they are. Oaths to the family are not decided by people, they are given in blood," Arya declared, looking back up from the journal, if only because Sansa's unusual meekness was offputting. "Any oath given to Lyanna would have taken precedence over Robert's friendship. If you were in Father's shoes, Jon, if you had to choose between me and your friend, who would you choose?"

Jon did not respond to that, but the answer was clear as day to all of them. Still, Arya could tell his obstinacy would not be dislodged so easily. "Then Father owed Allyria a duty by blood, too. It was not right," he declared. He looked to Allyria, his eyes soft in the firelight. "You should have grown up in Winterfell. I was taking your place."

"No, Your Grace," Allyria said quickly. "Eddard Stark did not even know of my existence. You read the journal - my mother kept me away knowing who you were, knowing what he would do. And in any case, I was raised safe and happy. My family could and did make alternative arrangements for me, and I do not begrudge you the life you were given. Even if I was an acknowledged bastard, raised in Dorne, my life would have been easier than that of a Snow in Winterfell."

Jon waved it off. "I'll not have you call me my titles here in private. It's Jon. Cousin, if you prefer."

"Brother," Arya corrected, shaking her head. "You're our blood and you're as much Father's child as Robb was, as much as we are, Jon. One day you'll have to get over your false bastardy."

"Please... Jon," Allyria began hesitantly. "You must understand that I do not begrudge you your childhood in Winterfell. The circumstances of both our births were not our doing. I only wish I could have known him." Her voice became wistful, and a faraway look entered her eyes. Her gaze traveled to the window - the window pointing North, to Winterfell, Arya realized. "Is there a... miniature? A family portrait, perhaps?" Allyria asked softly.

Arya could sense the hurt underneath. It was a hurt she had long felt in Jon. In a way, Jon and Allyria were two sides of the same coin. One was a trueborn masquerading as a bastard, raised by an uncle who became a father. The other was a bastard masquerading as a trueborn, raised by a family who kept the secret of her father's identity from her. Both had something of their makeup, their identity and blood, taken from them, hidden away for their own safety. She could understand Allyria's desire to know, because she had seen Jon grow up with the very same.

Yet to her own horror, sometimes she found the faces of those who had gone past fading. As much as she liked to explore the world, returning to Winterfell had its own pull of necessity. Visiting the crypts was a tonic for the memory - only when she saw the flaws in the stone did Father and Robb and Rickon's faces become more clear; one's nose was longer than it had been in real life, the other's cheekbones a smidge too high, and so on and so forth.

She felt a sudden stab of pity for Allyria, who would only ever have the cold comfort of imperfect images in graven stone, not the memory of flesh and blood.

The thought spurred something in her. "Father never had one commissioned," Arya said, returning to the book. She could feel everyone turning their attentions to her, though her eyes did not stray from the pages. "There is a statue in the crypt. The old one was made once the Lannisters returned his bones; it didn't look much like him and it was destroyed during the Great War, but there's another in its place now. You should visit, and see the crypt for yourself."

"I had a new one made," Sansa added. "By a sculptor who remembered him well. It looks more like him. Should we return to Winterfell, I can escort you to the crypts." Her blue eyes snapped to Jon, as if looking for tacit permission.

Jon simply nodded. "All the statues are there - our grandparents, my mother Lyanna, Uncle Brandon, Father, Robb, Rickon..."

"Don't forget the ones who are alive," Arya muttered, flipping to the last few pages of the journal. "She's yet to meet Bran, Meera, and little Robb."

"Little Robb?" Allyria questioned gently. 

"Bran's boy," Jon answered. "Meera Reed, Lady of Greywater Watch, is his wife. You are an aunt," he said with a wince, as if remembering only too late, which made Arya smile behind the book. 

Arya finished the journal and put it back on the table, sliding it over in Allyria's direction. She gathered it closer to her, clutching at it like it was the most precious thing in the world. She looked at Arya and then Sansa.

"You believe me?" she asked.

"I remember Edric well," Arya said. "And your journal is your strongest proof. The ink in these pages may as well have been written in blood, for how evocative they were. Whoever wrote them was not lying. You are Father's daughter. That much I believe."

"He wrote to me of you," Allyria added. Arya looked at her with surprise. "Ned, I mean. Not that we'd known who I was, then, but he mentioned he ran into Arya Stark while he was with my betrothed, Lord Beric."

Arya snorted. "We didn't quite get along."

"No, he made note of that," Allyria said, a small smile gracing her lips. "Ned was a little awed by your tenacity." She thrummed her fingers against the table, before addressing all of them and none in particular. "What becomes of me?"

"What do you mean?" Jon asked.

Allyria shifted in her seat. "In truth, I am not Allyria Dayne. I am Allyria Sand. There is no need to keep up the pretense anymore, since Ned's father had an heir before passing and there was no threat of our family losing Starfall. What becomes of me?"

Jon stood and paced towards the fire, drawing closer to Allyria's side of the table. "You can remain a Dayne if you'd like. You were raised as one, and I would not dream of taking that away from you. Since we are the few who know of this secret, you could live life as you have, known as Lady Ashara's sister. If you wish to honor your mother and be Lady Ashara's daughter, I will happily legitimize you a Dayne and acknowledge your parentage... but if you'd prefer, I can also legitimize you as a Stark of Winterfell."

A hush fell over the room. Allyria looked close to tears, her blue eyes - the one feature of hers that was not Stark, though Sansa and Robb and Rickon had all had it too - misting at Jon's offer. Ghost, who had curled up by the fire, perked up at this, looking at Allyria as if he had understood what was on the table.

"You would?"

Jon chuckled. "Allyria, all my life I wished nothing more than to be Ned Stark's trueborn son. I lived my life with the knowledge that I was the singular stain on that man's honor, the one ignoble thing Father's famed code crumbled to create. It is not a good thing to be a bastard." He placed a gentle gloved hand on Allyria's shoulder. "Even though I was trueborn, I suppose it was your shoes I walked in my whole life. I went through what you could have gone through. Father used to always tell me, 'you may not have my name, but you have my blood.' He never lied to me then, and so I will tell you the same now. You may not have our name, but you have our blood. So tell me... would you like to be a Stark?"

Arya glanced over at Sansa to see if her expression had changed, but to her surprise, she didn't see what she feared. A blank-check legitimization of Allyria would make her the second in line for Winterfell, behind Bran, before Sansa and Arya. She thought Sansa might insist that Allyria be placed at the end of the line of inheritance. Sansa said nothing. Her hands were folded in her lap, the crook of the cane she used to support herself nestled underneath them. Her eyes were trained only on Allyria, and Arya could see the ghost of tears in them.

"I... I..." Allyria looked choked, as if she'd been denied air so long that she'd forgotten how to breathe it. 

"You don't have to answer now," Jon added gently. "You could ask me when you're forty and I would grant it. Take your time and mull it over." Her brother's eyes scanned the room, settling on her first, and then Sansa, with a strange expression. "I have some things to discuss with Rhaenys. Arya, come meet me when you're done. Something happened on the Iron Islands that we need to talk about." He looked at Sansa very briefly. "You too, Sansa."

Then he wheeled around and left. Arya watched him go in quiet.

"You'll have to excuse the tension between me and the rest of our siblings, Allyria," Sansa said, after the door swung shut behind Jon. "I'm afraid I've made some mistakes lately."

Arya snorted. "That's an understatement. The mistakes started as soon as Daenerys Targaryen showed up to Winterfell. We were right to suspect her, in the end... but you still told everyone Jon's parentage after he made us swear not to."

Sansa looked out the window. A lone tendril of wind snaked into the room and tousled her red hair. "I know. I did it because I didn't want her on the throne... but I would have been happy to seat Jon on the Iron Throne, too. It just wasn't a possibility after what happened in King's Landing."

"You could have given him back the North," Arya said flatly.

"Would he have taken it?" Sansa retorted. Then, her shoulders slumped. "You're right. I knew better, but, I didn't want to be at anyone's mercy. I wasn't going to be a pawn."

"Jon wouldn't have made you one," Arya said. "You're a fool if you believe that, Sansa."

"Yes, a fool," her sister said bitterly. "Jon made me feel safe at night for the first time in years. When I saw him at Castle Black, it was as if half my worries disappeared. My nightmares lessened. I knew I could rely on Jon to protect me, to make sure people like Littlefinger and Cersei couldn't harm me ever again. But then he bent the knee to Daenerys. He fell in love with someone I knew didn't have our best interests at heart. I was afraid, again, then. Did you ever think about how I treated him? I was a right shrew to him when we grew up. Yes, Jon loved me, but Jon loves family because that's who he is. I didn't think he'd ever choose me over his trueborn aunt, his real blood, his lover, if it came down to it."

Arya slapped the table. "Jon is more wolf than dragon. He might be Rhaegar's seed but he's Lyanna's flesh, and Father's spirit! He still calls you sister, even after all that happened."

Sansa's eyes flashed with anger. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think there's a part of my mind that told me that every night I went to sleep? I made a mistake, Arya. I hurt our family. I destroyed my relationship with you and with Jon. I've had plenty of time to ruminate on my failures since Jon saved my worthless life after the battle." A tear snaked down her cheek, and then another, followed by a small deluge of noiseless sobs. She wiped away at her tears with a gloved hand and shook her head at Allyria. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overwhelm you, but..."

"There's nothing to apologize for. You... you are my..."

"Sister," Arya finished firmly. "You can say it, Allyria."

"Sister," the Dornishwoman finished sheepishly. "If it helps, Sansa, I don't know you. You and Arya and Jon may not be on the best of terms, but you do get a new chance with me."

Arya burst out laughing at Allyria's dry humor. "For what it's worth, Sansa is significantly less annoying than when we were children. She was the perfect image of a lady, and her needlepoint was absolutely fabulous. Our septa couldn't stop tripping over herself to praise her to our mother."

Sansa sniffed a little haughtily. "Well, it's not my fault I was good at being a lady. If I had talent at hacking with swords and riding like a madwoman, I would have joined you. What about you, Allyria? Were you more ladylike or did you show signs of the wolfblood?"

"I think the image of a perfect lady is a little different in Dorne," Allyria said with a soft chuckle. "But my Dayne relations always did say that I was a little overfond of horses."

Arya clapped in victory, and even Sansa let out a good-natured chuckle.

It was as if the ice between them had thawed, and they began to regale each other with stories from their childhoods. Arya couldn't help but notice the intermingling of sadness, longing, and joy when they spoke about life in Winterfell, about Father, Jon and Robb's bond, Bran's propensity for climbing, Rickon's mischievousness, and Sansa and her own bickering. Well into the night, in the ruins of Harrenhal, Arya and Sansa conjured the ghosts of Winterfell for their long-lost sister, so that through memory, the Stark household might live once more.

* * *

"I'm sending you to Gendry," Jon said simply.

Arya Stark, for the first time in many years, felt a twinge of nervousness creep into her body. She did not enjoy the way it felt, and she paced shiftily in Jon's solar. A light sprinkling of snow fell outside Harrenhal, though it was only the powdery kind that did not stay long. Winter had finally crept its way south past the Neck.

"Why me?" she challenged.

Jon rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. Behind him, Rhaenys' stifled giggle erupted into raucous laughter.

"Don't mock me," Arya snapped at her friend, though her ire was toothless. 

"I'm not!" Rhaenys protested weakly, in between fits of laughter. "We need someone to negotiate with the Storm King, who happens to control half the Crownlands and the Stormlands. Get him to bend the knee and we'll have everything but the Westerlands, the Reach, and Dorne behind us."

"You're a better negotiator than I am," Arya muttered. "You're the one who convinced Royce and the Vale to join with minimal concessions."

"Because Robin Arryn couldn't take his eyes off my breasts," Rhaenys retorted. "I cannot imagine you'll be particularly pleased if Gendry has a similar reaction."

Arya went deep red, as did Jon. "Rhae!" he groaned, exasperatedly. "Not something I love to be reminded of."

Rhaenys pecked Jon on the cheek. "As if I would love a spindly, pasty, obsessive little Vale lord as much as my Dragon of the North, husband." She fixed her violet eyes on Arya. "In all seriousness, even if Gendry intends to bend the knee without conditions, his lords will not see it that way. The Stormlands have been bled out by the recent wars. Perhaps more than any other kingdom, their fighting strength has been most depleted - even if Gendry did manage to repel a pirate invasion of the Crownlands and consolidate his rule. The foundations he sits on are shaky, and the Stormlands will try to bleed any kind of concession out of us that will help them rebuild and restore."

"Not that that would be a particularly bad thing," Jon interjected after a pause. "The Crown should be willing to make sure the constituent kingdoms are hale and hearty. Weak links create opportunities for men like Tywin Lannister to flourish in the twilight. It does matter, however, how we go about it. Aid granted from a position of strength projects stability and dependability. Concessions bled out through leverage project weakness."

"So you want me to make it look like anything we give the Stormlands is an act of royal charity and not Gendry twisting our arms," Arya said flatly.

Rhaenys grimaced. "I cannot pretend to know Gendry better than you, Arya. You know how I feel about the matter, despite your protestations." Arya opened her mouth to say something, but Rhaenys held up her hand, causing Arya to scowl. _She is a natural queen,_ she thought. 

"It's not so easy to forgive the son of the man who condoned my mother's murder and called it just. Who condoned mine and Aegon's apparent murders and called it just. Even if you and Jon are both adamant about Gendry's character, I will not be at rest until I come to the same judgment about him." Rhaenys paused and sighed. "However, if he is what you say he is, then you are best equipped to deal with the matter. If Jon goes, the Stormlords will crow that they forced the King to come to their door like a beggar with hat in hand. If I go, I will let my personal judgment cloud things. Neither is particularly advisable."

"You get along fine with Tyrion," Arya muttered.

"I do, but that act of toleration took time and experience," Rhaenys said. Her expression softened and she crossed the room, taking Arya's hands into hers. "Arya, I'm not saying that I'm right and you're wrong. I admit that I'm biased on the issue. It'll take me some time to come around, but I do promise I'll give Gendry a just chance. In any case, neither Jon nor I think Gendry is the real opponent in any negotiation. It'll be his council and his lords who push for concessions. If you go, you can end negotiations quickly before the Stormlords have a chance to petition Gendry to needle more out of us." Arya shook her head, swayed by her friend's raw honesty. One of the most disarming things about Rhaenys was her readiness in admitting that she might be in the wrong; she was never unnaturally convinced of her own cause or righteousness, but willing to consider things from others' perspectives and rationales. 

"I believe you," Arya said. Rhaenys lit up with a smile. "I'll go to Gendry. Will Allyria or Edric be coming with me?"

"Allyria will, if she wishes," Jon said. "Edric expressed an interest in staying and drilling with some of the soldiers, and I'm inclined to allow him to stay. Did she make up her mind about the legitimization after I left?"

"No," Arya said. "Not that she said, in any case. I'll ask her how she feels about coming along."

Two heavy knocks came at the door. From the weight and pace of the rapping, Arya knew it to be Brienne.

"Your Grace?" The Kingsguard's voice came gruffly through the door.

"Yes?" Jon said.

"Lady Sansa is here."

"Thank you, Ser Brienne. Please send her in," Jon said, clearing his throat.

The door swung open; Sansa hobbled in, relying on her walking stick. She lowered into a pained curtsey to Jon and Rhaenys. Arya watched the scene unfold carefully. Jon's face was grim, as it always was around Sansa, but Rhaenys had put on a mask of politeness, which surprised her. Rhaenys had been the most enraged by Sansa's threat against the dragons during their little war; hells, Sansa had ordered Glover to try and attack Rhaenys. For whatever reason, however, Rhaenys seemed at least more willing to forgive and forget - or to make it seem like she had done so - than Jon. Then again, it was more deeply personal for Jon to be betrayed by his sister than it was for Rhaenys to be hostile with her goodsister.

"Congratulations on your wedding, Your Graces," Sansa said stiffly. She nodded towards Rhaenys. "Welcome to the family, goodsister."

Rhaenys dipped her head graciously, with a smile that did not fully reach her eyes.

"Good, you're here," Jon said. He gestured towards his desk in the corner of the solar. Rhaenys took the seat, while Jon leaned against the table. Arya and Sansa took their own seats across on the other side of the desk.

"There's two issues we have to deal with regarding the Iron Islands. The first, of course, is Yara Greyjoy," Jon started. "I captured her, and she's sitting in the dungeons right now. I promised the Northern lords her head, after what happened at Deepwood Motte. Another Northern house completely wiped from existence because of our enemies." Jon paused, before continuing, "I bore the Glovers no ill will, despite Robett Glover's constant treachery. His children and lady wife did not deserve what happened to them. For that alone, as well as the consistent invasions along the coastline of the North and her crimes at Bear Island, I am well within my rights to have Yara Greyjoy's head. With her death, a great house of the Seven Kingdoms will cease to exist."

"Not much of a loss, if you ask me. The only person worth a damn from that family was Theon," Arya scoffed. "And Theon had to redeem himself quite a bit." Sansa looked a little hurt at that comment, but Arya allowed her the indignation. Theon had been much more her savior and friend than Arya's.

"I have given Lordship of the Iron Islands to Lord Rodrik Harlaw... but there is a complication," Jon sighed, running his hands through his hair. "One that concerns the three of us, Arya, Sansa. Theon has a lad, a bastard."

Sansa sat up ramrod-straight in her chair, reacting before the rest of them. "What?" she said, breathlessly. "Where is he?"

"Here, in the camp," Jon said. "I had him brought with me from Pyke. The boy's name is Balon."

"You can't kill him," Sansa said, standing up quickly. The movement caused her pain, and her face was contorted into a grimace of hurt, but her expression was adamant. It was only after a stretched moment that Sansa realized that she had perhaps overstepped her new bounds, and a shyness crept in there, before it, too, was quickly killed and replaced again by the steely determination. 

"My lady is gracious to be concerned so with the fate of a bastard boy, but rest assured that the King and I have no plans on slaughtering children," Rhaenys said coolly. On the surface, her words bore no malice, and in other circumstances would even be taken as a compliment of a person's natural charity, but Arya knew well the barb contained within.

Sansa looked hurt, but she nodded in admittance. "It's because I wronged someone I once thought a bastard that I know what I speak of, Your Grace. For better or worse, Theon was one of us. He gave his life to defend Bran. He risked his life to save me from the Boltons. Whatever he did in betraying Robb, he atoned for in the way he lived and died. We shouldn't do wrong by his son. I'm not saying you have to make him a Greyjoy, but... the boy deserves better than being put to death."

Jon tapped his desk, before turning to Arya. "What do you think?"

Arya did not hold back. "It would be better for all of us if the boy was dead," she said coldly. "But I'm not Robert Baratheon. I will not suggest we murder a child because we had a mixed relationship with his father."

"Foster him like Father fostered Theon," Sansa interjected. Arya saw the passion in her eyes for Theon's child. She would never fully understand it, but she did see why. Theon had done right by her, and in the end by Bran. Still, she would neither forget nor forgive what he did with the rest of his family. Robb might not have died directly because of him, but who was to say how things would have turned out had there been no pressing need to return north to recapture Winterfell? 

"Fostering is a viable option," Rhaenys said. "You told me the boy is young, Jon. Form him to be like Quellon Greyjoy, or like Theon. He doesn't have to be a Yara or a Euron."

"Or a Balon," Arya added grimly. "His namesake was the one who made Theon break his vows to Robb. But since I know that Balon Pyke is not going to conveniently disappear, then fostering him here with us is probably your best option. Legitimize him so that you do not have to deal with the fallout of eradicating a great house, and have him come into the lordship of the Iron Islands when he's of age. Until then, Harlaw can rule. Alternatively, you can send him to the Maesters, but that still leaves you with the problem of destroying the Greyjoys."

Jon raised an eyebrow at her with a small smile. "For someone who eradicated a house by herself, you are awfully concerned about the Greyjoys."

Arya shrugged. "The Freys were scum. They were all guilty of breaking guest right, and they got what they had coming. Besides, no one batted an eye for Walder Frey. Nobody loves the Greyjoys, but unlike the Freys, the Greyjoys have some claim to prestige. If they can be decimated, they'll all look at you warily - Arryn, Lannister, Baratheon, the Reachmen... you'll have to deal with uneasy wardens for the rest of your reign."

"Arya is right. Besides all that, Theon's son would do well under you," Sansa said. She hesitated before adding, "You're the most like Father out of all of us, Jon. Theon benefited from Father's guidance; Balon will benefit from yours."

Jon rubbed his face before nodding. "Very well. The boy can squire for me. Yara Greyjoy goes to the block. Arya, you and Allyria, if she wishes, will go to Storm's End tomorrow."

"Jon," Sansa interjected.

"Yes?"

The redhead blushed, looking at Arya and then back at Jon. "Edric Dayne asked to call on me. I didn't give an answer..."

Arya smirked. "I think our new sister would have something to say about you moving onto her cousin. So soon after Hardyng?"

Sansa blanched, no doubt reminded of the hasty alliance she had forged with the Vale Knight in order to wage war on Jon. She focused on him, though her eyes and her expression did not stoop to pleading.

Jon gave Sansa a small smile - not forgiving, Arya noted, but it was genuine. It was completely Jon: even if he would never trust Sansa again, he would always love her, just as Arya would. It was their way. "It's alright with me. Edric seems like a good man." He swiveled to Arya. "Speaking of good men... well, not that you need it, nor that you would actually listen to me, but if you would wish to seal the negotiations with the Storm King with a marriage alliance, you may."

Arya blushed deeply, causing everyone in the room to laugh.

* * *

Btw, because I believe visuals are important, some of you might wonder who I think Rhaenys Stark-Targaryen (or is it Rhaenys Targaryen-Stark-Targaryen? Incest really does make maiden names complicated) looks like.   
  
Well, wonder no more. I present to you below, Rhaenys, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, the Dragon of Dorne:  
  
  
  
(yes, I shopped Naomi Scott with purple eyes LOL. Also, she's wearing orange, which is perfect). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendrya fans, y'all are up next :)
> 
> BTW: The Battle of the Honeywine, the fall of Oldtown, and Daenerys' arrival in Westeros still have NOT occurred yet from Jon and Co.'s perspective. The timelines will merge again during the next chapter.


	32. Wolf and Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos conducts negotiations. The Storm Lords receive visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendrya fans, it's time.
> 
> Sorry for the delay guys. Life (work) and then the blizzard/electrical disaster you may have heard about in Texas affected me directly. Not to worry, I'm alright, just trying to normalize life lol

**Davos - II and Arya - IV**

**3rd Moon, 307 A.C.**

_**Davos** _

  
"How do I look?" Davos heard Gendry hiss from the side of his mouth.

"Like a king," Davos answered placidly. "There's a crown on your head and everything."

"Very funny but that's not what I asked," Gendry retorted. "She's going to be here _soon._ "

"Aye, and fretting over your collar and doublet will do fuck-all about that, Your Grace," Davos said with a chuckle. To a certain extent, it was enjoyable to watch his young liege squirm in the Stormlands sun, as the chill of winter crept further and further south. It wasn't cold like the last winter - hell, there was very little in this world that was cold like the unholy terror that swept out of the North with the Night King - but Night King or no, the chill still crept in under the cloak and into the bone, especially in the constantly wet Stormlands.

The drumming of hoofbeats drew close, the noise echoing past the lowered gate of Castle Stokeworth, where Gendry had taken up residence in the part of the Stormlands he wrenched from the grasp of Aurane Waters. Davos eyed his king once more - clad in black, cloaked in a yellow-gold fabric with the black stag of his house emblazoned. Next to him stood Lord Massey, Lords Tarth and Selmy, and a host of the other Stormlords and Crownlanders that had bent the knee to the Storm King.

Gendry would bend the knee, no doubt, to Jon. That was hardly in question; the boy had more or less pulled Davos to the side near a moon earlier, when he had sent the Dayne siblings to Jon's wedding as emissaries on his behalf, and admitted as much. But Davos knew the Stormlords like the Northern lords had with Jon, would piss and moan about the prospect of giving up their independence as a sovereign kingdom. When the knee was bent, it had to be bent strategically, with enough concessions and benefits from the Crown that it would seem like a mutual relationship and not a humiliation.

The hooves that made the hoofbeats finally came into sight, as a contingent of riders and knights in black cloaks bearing the white dragon of Jon's branch of the Targaryens rode through the gate. Davos craned his neck to see if a wheelhouse would be behind them, but there was not, and he smiled when he saw the two smaller figures dismount from their horses, with the assistance of Ser Brienne. One was a face that had become familiar to them - Allyria Dayne, who did not wear her typical purple, but rather grey wools like a Northerner, which Davos found interesting - and the other was a face he was sure Gendry had not thought to ever see again. Princess Arya of the House Stark strode over to them, surrounded by her guard, the shadow she cast far greater than her petite frame.

"I have the honor of presenting Princess Arya of the House Stark, Winterslayer, World-Walker, and Mistress of Whispers for King Aemon and Queen Rhaenys of the Houses Stark and Targaryen," Lady Brienne announced boldly. The next part is what caught Davos - and everyone else present - by surprise. "I have the honor of presenting her sister, Princess Allyria of the House Stark."

An audible mumble went up from the crowd, and Davos' mouth dropped just a hint. Gendry glared back at his assembled lords, and the whispers faded. He had to clear his throat to catch Davos' attention and remind him of his duties as Hand.

"Ah... yes, this is Gendry Baratheon. He's Storm King," Davos said, before realizing he ought to elaborate. "Some call him the Young Stag."

Arya muffled laughter behind her hand, and Allyria was trying her best to fight off a smile. "I see you're as eloquent as ever, Ser Davos," Arya said.

"Forgive my Hand," Gendry said, glaring at Davos. Davos could see the lad was plenty nervous, and there was a slight shake in his hand that looked as if it would only be resolved once he touched Arya to make sure she was real and not some sort of waking dream. "He's a simple man."

Arya looked at Gendry slyly, before extending a hand over for Davos to kiss. "I'm rather fond of simple people," Arya said, her voice low. Her words were ostensibly directed at him, but her eyes were fixed on Gendry. Davos flitted his gaze over to Allyria, and from the look on her face, he surmised that both of them, as well as all the assembled lords and knights and castle servants were just unwanted company between the two.

Gendry, who was now a subtle shade of red, kissed Allyria's hand. "My lady, you've gone to a wedding a Dayne and come back a Stark. I wasn't aware there were any Stark men left to marry..." he said, trailing off, his eyes flickering questioningly to Arya.

"Not here, Gendry," Arya interjected. "There's a lot to talk about, a lot Jon wanted me to discuss with you. When it's just us, Allyria, and Davos, we'll tell you everything."

* * *

There was a generally nervous air in Stokeworth Castle. For one, it was not the largest of castles, and therefore there were far too many great lords shoved into an enclosed space for Davos' liking - such places were breeding grounds for schemes, plans, and animosities. Aside from that, everyone seemed aware of Gendry's proclivity towards Jon Snow. Only a very small handful had ever actually interacted with the man, most of whom had died in the North due to Stannis' folly. The remainder were skeptics, and Davos was careful not to advance Jon's position too much in the Storm King's court, for fear of having his loyalties questioned.

They held a small welcoming feast for their guests, though Arya Stark generally seemed bored throughout the process, and Allyria Dayne - Stark, now, apparently - seemed pensive. Gendry had asked Allyria if she had married a Stark, but Brandon Stark was the only male Stark of age left, and he was married with an infant boy of his own. On top of that, Ser Brienne had introduced Allyria as Arya's _sister._

Davos thought back to what he knew of Robert's Rebellion and the catalyzing events. It would seem that much of the accepted knowledge of parentage around that time had become muddled. Lady Allyria was of an age with Jon. Perhaps...

He looked her over once. There were certainly some features in common, but no sign of Targaryen ancestry in her, not in the way there was in Jon Snow once one knew what to look for. That ruled out a twin sister. Ned Stark had gone to Dorne to retrieve Lyanna Stark and had come back with a supposed bastard that was not his own. What if he had left his real natural child behind?

When the feast wound down, Gendry, Arya, and Allyria departed for a more private audience, and Davos followed after seeing that all matters in the castle were otherwise squared away. When he arrived in Gendry's solar, however, only Lady Allyria was waiting for him, tapping away impatiently at the large table. When Davos entered, she smiled.

"Ser Davos. It would seem that you and I are the only ones who will be conducting official business of state on this trip."

Davos looked about confusedly. "Forgive me, my Lady, but we seem to have misplaced a king and a princess."

Allyria's eyes twinkled mirthfully. "They're not misplaced. I know exactly where they are." No sooner had the words left her lips when a clattering noise came from the adjoining lord's chambers, followed by a happy, feminine squeal, and a little laughter.

Davos had the courtesy to blush a little. "Ah. I see." He dragged a chair across the stone floor and took his seat across from Allyria. "Well, I suppose negotiating's not their strong suit. I hope you don't mind my asking, my lady, but you seemed to have changed houses somewhat mysteriously since we last spoke."

Allyria's face became a little more serious, and her smile was replaced by that pensive look. "It was something I had known since before I left Dorne after Arianne's coup, my lord. My lord brother, Edric's late father, left behind a diary for me from my mother - my real mother, Ashara Dayne. In it, she wrote of her last days and her romance at Harrenhal with Lord Eddard Stark."

Her words were the missing puzzle piece. So his second guess had been largely correct - Ned Stark had fathered a bastard; not in Dorne, but before, likely at Harrenhal, when he was not betrothed to Catelyn Tully. The reason for the Stark features became much more apparent now.

"And Jon offered you the family name," Davos remarked, more to himself than to Allyria.

"He did," Allyria confirmed. "And I accepted before I came here. I suppose ravens will be sent throughout the realm soon enough. Truth be told, I had not known what to expect of my cousin-brother when I went to him, but now I find myself convinced that he would make one of the finest kings this land has ever seen, my lord." She leaned over the table a little, and Davos could sense that Jon had converted yet another into a believer. "Though I suspect Jon's strength of character is something you already know well."

Davos nodded with a fond smile, thinking back on his time as Jon's Hand. "Aye, this is something I've known for a long time. It's where things ought to have stood after we took King's Landing. If only fate was a little kinder with regards to Daenerys Targaryen, we might have had peace. I haven't spent too much time wallowing in it, though. I'm an old man, my lady, and life is full of too many regrets to go out and dig them up after they've been buried. Ifs and buts only cause sorrow for what might have been."

"Indeed. Is it often, however, that we have a second chance, my lord?" Allyria leaned forward, her eyes twinkling in the torchlight of the chamber. "When Jon was brought back from the dead, you told him something."

Davos nodded, thinking back. Jon's fate was nothing but endless toil, and truly, in that moment, his heart had gone out to the lad. There was something to be said about a restful end to a thankful life, even if Jon had died in a violent and unjust way. In the end, though, he was at peace, no longer concerned with the toil and troubles of this world. A second chance at life was a blessing, but it had come with certain pre-conditions, and among them was a duty that outweighed any that other men might have to shoulder in their lifetime. From Castle Black to the walls of Kings Landing, Jon's face had been ashen, his shoulders sagged under the pressures of that duty.

But when faced with such a weight, what else was there to do but grin - or grimace - and bear it? Short of ending one's own life, what else was there to do? And if Jon was right - if oblivion was all that awaited them on the other end... then, as terrible as life could be, at least it was _something_.

"Even old men don't get much rest," Davos muttered quietly. "Jon is not yet old, but I fear he will be before long."

"That is something out of our hands, I'm afraid," Allyria replied. "But we can lessen our King's burdens. He has something he did not have the first time he took a stab at the business of ruling, and that is people that he trusts. When Daenerys Targaryen came to these shores, he had to unite all of Westeros around the banner of the living, and with the exception of Cersei Lannister, he succeeded. Without that threat, loyalties frayed, and Jon himself was caught in between his loyalty to his people and his loyalty to the Queen to whom he bent the knee. This time, everyone who follows him believes in him." Lady Allyria's confident voice stumbled a little, and then she added, almost as an afterthought. "I believe in him."

"He certainly has that ability," Davos said with a soft laugh. "I've felt it myself."

"Then now, as before, the King needs your aid. There is a threat coming to these shores." Allyria took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for what she was about to say, before continuing. "Daenerys Targaryen lives."

All the color drained from Davos' face, as he thought of the ashen destruction of King's Landing, the screeching of the dragon overhead, the smell of burnt flesh, boiling blood, and deathly smog everywhere. He thought of the last remaining caches of wildfire exploding under the city, adding green fire to orange, killing thousands. He gripped his chair and swayed.

"How?" As soon as he said it, however, he knew the answer. It must have been whatever had happened to Jon, to Lord Beric. She had been brought back by the Red Priests.

"The work of the Red Priests of R'hllor, I'm afraid. She has married Aegon Targaryen and staked her claim again to the Seven Kingdoms. You're already aware of Aegon, my lord, but Daenerys is leading a giant host across Essos and will disembark in Dorne before beginning her war of conquest anew."

"Seven hells," Davos breathed. "We don't have the armies to survive."

"We do," Allyria argued. "Jon has already rallied the Free Folk, the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Iron Islands to his cause. He has sixty thousand men marshaled at Harrenhal with two hundred ships in White Harbor and another hundred in the Iron Islands. Between him and Queen Rhaenys, they also have two dragons - and they're growing things, my lord. They won't be as large as Daenerys' dragon, but they are fearsome nonetheless."

Davos fell back in his seat. Fear began to claw up from the pit in his stomach, but he forced it down with not a little effort. "The Storm Lords will still want some concessions. If it were up to me, I'd march our armies to Harrenhal right now."

Allyria nodded. "King Aemon is prepared to generously grant favorable produce tax rates for a five-year period following his coronation to allow for the Stormlands' recovery from the sustained wars. He's also offered to lower the crown's percentage of import tax on goods brought into Weeping Town for a two-year period." Allyria glanced at the door when a muffled sound of a moan came from the other room. "And he has proposed, pending approval of King Gendry and Princess Arya, that they marry and unite their houses."

"They might do that without his permission anyway," Davos remarked.

Allyria let out a soft chuckle. "In return, King Gendry will bend the knee and will be granted the Lord Paramountcy of the Stormlands, along with the title of Warden of the South. All cadet branches of Storm Lord houses granted lands in the Crownlands will become banners to His Grace, and Lord Baratheon will forswear all claims to any lands in the crownlands, including the territory that comprises the ruin of King's Landing, the Driftmark, Crackclaw Point, Claw Isle, and Dragonstone. Summerhall will also revert to the King, and finally, Lord Baratheon will renounce any claim to the Lordship of the Seven Kingdoms. In return, the lands between the Mander along Tumbleton and Bitterbridge, all the way to the Blueburn, will be seized from the Reach and given to the Stormlands."

"King Gendry gave me the Lordship of Rosby," Davos pointed out. "By rights, my lands would revert to the Crown, under this arrangement."

"The King would be your direct liege," Allyria clarified. "Your original lands given by Stannis Baratheon are in Cape Wrath, are they not, my Lord?" 

"They are."

"Well, my Lord, you have multiple sons. Upon your passing, your heir would inherit Rosby and continue being a bannerman of the King, but your lands in the Stormlands can revert to your second and third sons. A lordship for the Seaworths of Rosby, who swear to King Aemon, and the Seaworths of Cape Wrath will be landed knights who swear fealty to Storm's End."

Davos nodded. His sons would keep their inheritances, and he would have something to give Stannis and Steffon, not just Devan, which pleased him. The demands were fair, all in all - generous, even, although giving up the nominal claim to the now-nonexistent Iron Throne would rankle some of the Storm Lords who harbored ambitions for Gendry as King of all Westeros. But with additional lands from the smoldering ruin that was now the Reach, and the news of Daenerys, even the most obstinate of Storm Lords would see that this war had come down to the dragons and the wolves. The stags had no part in this.

"I think those terms, with some minor points of debate, are acceptable. But I have not the authority to accept for King Gendry. He will have to hear your offer for himself."

* * *

_**Arya (moments earlier)...**_

She had not seen him since the Great Council in the Dragonpit where the great lords of Westeros had sundered the country into seven. Back then, they could barely lay eyes on each other. She was sure that her rejection of his proposal was still stinging him, and every time she even bothered to look in his direction, she could feel her heart rip. The Faceless Man who had come from Braavos could easily maintain a calm, placid face, one that did not give away the extent of the hurt that lived in her spirit for having spurned Gendry, but Arya Stark could not deny that pain. She had buried it for the duration of her travels, thinking it was likely she would never see him again.

Now, fate, the gods, or perhaps just plain happenstance had conspired to bring them together, here again, in the same room.

"You look..." Gendry started, before trailing off. His mouth worked as if there were words it wanted to form, but his tongue did not give voice to them.

"Yes?" Arya prodded. For his part, he looked good. He had likely had the last growth spurt he'd ever have, and he'd filled out more than satisfactorily. He was taller now, strong, with sparkling blue eyes - the kind of Baratheon written about in the histories of the maesters. There was a maturity beyond looks on his face as well, as if ruling a kingdom had imparted some sense of responsibility and grace that had not existed before, and yet he had not simply thrown away his past as if he'd been a highborn all along. Or so she hoped, anyway. If there was an advisor who was best for keeping Gendry's good spirit intact, it was Davos.

"It doesn't matter," Gendry said. "It's more important that I'd thought I'd never see you again, Arya. When you left for Oldtown, I thought that was it."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Did you have so little faith in me that I'd not survive the trip West?"

He laughed, running a hand through his black hair. It had grown out from the close crop he had maintained during the Council, now falling past his earlobes in length. "No, I knew if there was ever a person to do that, it'd be you. What I wasn't sure of was whether you'd come back to see _me._ "

 _Oh_ , Arya thought. "I would have visited."

Gendry took a step forward. "I didn't want you to visit." She was already close to the wall, but his advance caused her to move into it. All the decisiveness and training that had been instilled in her was out the window, and she found herself breathing harder than usual, her back pressing into the cold stone of Stokeworth castle's stone walls.

"That's why I didn't say yes," she said. Her voice felt drier than usual.

"Then you misunderstood," Gendry said. He had drawn very close now, and his shining blue eyes seemed to sear right through her. "You think I expected you to settle down in Storm's End and play the lady of the house?"

 _Yes. That's exactly what I thought_ , Arya realized. But was it fair to Gendry to have thought that? Did she miscalculate, her fear throwing off her reasoning?

"I didn't know what you expected," she answered, instead, wincing internally at how _stupid_ that sounded. Of course she knew what he expected. She had just been afraid that she was wrong.

"So instead of asking, you ran off," he said, a little brusquely.

"Yes," she said, not denying it. "I couldn't do it, Gendry. I'd made my own fate. I couldn't willingly walk into a cell after all I'd seen and done. I couldn't live the life of any other highborn woman."

"And you think I would have put you into a cell?" His voice was now pained, and it felt like a stab at her own heart. "Do you think that when Daenerys Targaryen gave me my name, that she gave me the brain of a highborn too?" Gendry looked exasperated. "I'm a bastard orphan from Flea Bottom. I'm not Robert Baratheon. I wasn't tutored by maesters and taught by masters at arms and made to be a ruler or a lord. My teachers were my blacksmithing master, the streets of King's Landing, and an onion knight who only learned how to read a few years ago himself. What makes you think I would ever have forced you into a dress and made you play lady of the house? You could have traveled from end to end of Westeros a thousand times, gone so far West that you came into the East, and I would have been fine with it, so long as I could call you my wife, as long as I knew one day you'd come back home and see me again. Sometimes I wish I could have thrown away this crown and gone and followed you into the West, but I didn't. I had a duty and I stuck to it."

"If I became your lady, I would have had duties too," Arya said, but it was a weak excuse, and she knew it. What had she been doing for Jon and Rhaenys ever since she had gotten back? There was a certain joy in duty, too, especially when the duty wasn't needlepoint or parties or hosting visitors all day. Her duties for Jon let her ride, fight, speak, and be heard.

Gendry's sparkling blue eyes turned to fire. "There is one duty I'd ask of you, and it's not one you'd have any trouble keeping," he said. His voice was a low breath, plucking at the strings of her heart. "All I wanted was that you be mine, Arya Stark, and the rest would take care of itself. You could travel the world a hundred days and come to our home only once, but that would have been enough for me as long as I was in here." His fingers reached out and tapped softly at her chest, in the space between her breasts, and she let out the softest of gasps as his fingers touched against her exposed skin.

"You are," she croaked out. "You were in there from Oldtown to the unknown continents to Asshai back to Eastwatch. I took you around the world with me."

He smiled at her, and somehow they were pressed into each other. Every rational, analytical part of her brain had shut down, and all the coldness she'd filled herself with was gone and washed away, filled with an excruciating heat that was driving her more than her conscious thought. She was not no-one, not Arya Stark of Winterfell, not an explorer, nor a killer, nor a princess. She was his, and he was hers.

"Maybe after this is over, you can take me with you," he whispered. "We can share a cabin."

"There's plenty of room in mine," she whispered back. "There's a big bed, and... well, that's just about the only furniture we'll use."

A noise emanated from the other room, and there was a scraping of a chair against stone as someone pulled back a seat, followed by two voices - one Allyria's, and the other she recognized to be Davos'. 

"They're conducting negotiations," she said to Gendry, who smirked at her.

"Aren't we doing the same?"

Her smile became sly. "Why, were you under the impression that my brother planned to offer me to you to sweeten a deal?"

"Jon can no more offer you than he can escape thrones and beautiful Targaryen women," Gendry said back. "Besides, I would take you and hang the rest of the deal."

That was more than enough for her to hear. If she was being completely honest with herself, she had made up her mind long before she stepped foot in Stokeworth. If she truly had her way, she'd have snuck into the castle, pinned Gendry to the wall with a dagger at his side, and made him take her then and there. It would have made sense to strike with the element of surprise.

She pressed her lips against his before he could. This was something she needed to do, a step forward she needed to take for herself. The kiss conveyed love, commitment, and a willingness to try, a deep breath before a plunge - it was her way of showing him that she would be brave in this regard. If ever she feared that it would be like a chain around her neck, a noose tightening against her hard-won freedom and way of life, those fears were erased. It felt nothing like that. It wasn't possessed of the same urgency that overtook them both before the Great War, when any moment could have been their last. This moment felt more frozen in time, and Arya was determined to make sure that she did not rush this.

Her arms looped around his neck, and he pulled her into him, lifting her to straddle his waist as he carried her over to the bed tucked away in the corner of the lord's quarters. Along the way, he knocked something over, and she giggled as she felt him stumble, though he never let her go. He was even stronger than she remembered, his bull's strength of a forge worker honed into the strength of a warrior king. His powerful arms laid her to rest in the covers, even as they fumbled with her clothing. His eyes never left hers, sparking a fire low in her belly, pooling liquid heat between her thighs. As soon as they were naked, he pinned her down against the bed, trailing kisses from her lips to her breasts, suckling at her nipples at an achingly slow pace. 

"You- you don't have to be so fucking gentle," she gasped out, trying to force his head to act _faster_ by pressing against the back of it with both her hands. He simply shook his head.

"Two years, Arya. Two fucking years. I want to learn you again and I'll take as long as I fucking want," he growled at her. Their eyes met, and his were darkened with lust. Gone was any sense of temerity he'd once possessed, and she found she liked it.

When his tongue found her cunt, she moaned his name loudly. She decided she could get used to this.


	33. Enslaver of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon realizes the depth of his mistakes.

**Aegon - II**

The first snows came to the Reach, and he and Arianne sat on a carved bench in the balcony of their quarters in Highgarden, overlooking the plains that stretched out in every direction from the former seat of House Tyrell. 

"Growing strong," his wife said softly, watching the crystalline flakes twirl softly in the air before descending to the ground. "Now roses grow here no more."

When he had taken Arianne for his second queen, he had never expected her to be particularly introspective. Arianne's charms lay elsewhere. Now, however, with the arrival of Daenerys, he had found sides of her that he had not seen before. Between her cleverness and sultry airs, perhaps brought on by their child in her belly, there was a softness to Arianne that he had not seen, and he was convinced she did not often let out. 

Especially when compared to the cold, dead embrace of Daenerys, Aegon found comfort in it. 

"A sad fate," Aegon remarked. "That it should have ended with an old woman, the last of her house... it seems more a sad song than a maester's history."

"Mace was a fool to bring Garlan and Willas to the Sept of Baelor that day," Arianne said. "His whole house in one place, all together, during such a pivotal moment in the game - I don't know what he was thinking."

"I don't think anyone knew Cersei Lannister would become fond of sipping wine from a tower and watching her city burn like she was Grandfather come again," Aegon muttered. He had no memory of his grandfather, but he did have descriptions: a frightening, wizened man, terrible to behold. His mental image of Cersei Lannister never fit well with that, yet somehow those features always easily morphed into Daenerys' whenever he thought too long on them. 

"I don't think anyone knew all the things that would transpire after Robert's Rebellion. It seems almost childish to claw away at the idea of a throne in a ruined city when the thing that ruined the city flies above your head." Arianne's eyes flew upwards, as if searching for her impending death flying down from the skies, but nothing came. Drogon was off hunting somewhere, and Aerax made his perch on a ruined turret across from them, on the other side of Highgarden's walls, curling around the crenellations with his lithe and growing body. He saw his wife's hand fall protectively to her belly, and by instinct, he reached out and intertwined his fingers with hers.

"Does she kick?" he asked.

Arianne raised an eyebrow, and her lip curled upwards with a hint of amusement. "She? _She_ does, but not intensely. _She_ is a gentle girl."

Aegon shrugged and tucked a stray silver lock behind his ear. "Is there such a thing as a father's intuition?"

His wife snorted. "If so, it ought to be considered secondary to a mother's." Arianne's face softened and she pressed a kiss to the stubble on his jaw. "Do you want a little princess?"

"I don't think it matters much," Aegon answered honestly. "Every father wants a son to carry on his legacy, but whether the babe is a she or he - it would be the first one born to House Targaryen since..." He trailed off, thinking of the Northern brother that he had never known, the one that was younger than him by a few months. He was aware of Rhaego, Daenerys' child by the Khal, but Rhaego had not been born to any semblance of life. His house had gone over two decades without a new addition, and it was past time for the dragons to begin growing again. "If the child is healthy, it truly will not matter."

He wondered if he would be a good father. He certainly never had a point of comparison.

" _She_ would be heir to the Iron Throne _and_ to Dorne," Arianne mused, dragging him out of his thoughts. "Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and the Princess regnant of Dorne."

"If we had a boy after her, she would succeed to Dorne and he to the Iron Throne," Aegon said with a soft laugh. "But I think I would prefer them to grow happy and safe before I dream of what seats they might inherit."

"I would not have thought that of you before," Arianne said. A soft breeze rustled through the dying trees below; the last of the leaves on their branches clung desperately to the twigs that kept them there, hoping against hope to stay on the boughs and not join their companions in the bushels below. There was a chill nip in the air that came with the wind, though the true throes of winter had not reached Highgarden just yet.

"I would not have thought it of myself," Aegon admitted. "I have longed for my throne, my birthright, Arianne. I still do. But when I was a child, when it was just Rhaenys and I, sometimes we would just dream of a family, a mother and father who were still around, and a home from which we did not have to flee every few months. We wished to be free, to see the air, to see the valleys and mountains and rivers of our home. All we ever truly saw were the halls of the Fire Priests."

"It pains me to say that I do not think your return will be as pleasant as you might have hoped," Arianne said quietly.

"There is still time for us to scheme a way for it to be," he prodded at his wife. When she rolled her eyes at him, he simply laughed. "Ari, did you think I wasn't aware that you had designs on me and a throne? I knew. I just chose not to resist."

Arianne wrenched free of his hands and glared at him. "And do you think that I did not know that you came to me seeking the comfort of your beloved sister? Do you think I'm not aware that I remind you of her?" Her voice turned poison. "Do you see her when you lay in bed with me? Do you think of her purple eyes instead of my brown ones? Is it her voice you hear instead of mine?"

Aegon felt a knife twist into his gut, because his wife had seen right through him. Arianne was not stupid. She could sniff out a liar, and so he chose the policy of honesty, even though he could have laughed away her accusations. The truth was that she was right on all accounts. Or at least, she had been. His eyes traveled down to her swelling belly, and she did not miss it. Her arm curled protectively over their babe.

He gave her a sad smile and cupped her cheek with a hand. "I will not lie to you. It is what originally brought me to your side. It is not why I chose to stay there. I've grown to care for you, Ari. I think one day I might even come to call it love, if I ever learn what love is," Aegon laughed. "Do you care for me in that way? Is it the throne you wanted, or did you feel something for me, too?"

She did not answer, and her eyes glanced away quickly enough for him to know what that meant. He did not care all too much.

Aegon pressed a kiss to her lips. They were frozen, a little hard from the chill wind, and they did not part for him, but he paid that no mind. He pressed another, and yet another, and then finally she moved along with him, her arms slipping tentatively around his neck. He lifted her gently, carefully, into his lap, and she stifled a moan against his mouth as he held her flush against him.

"It does not matter now," Aegon said, lazily nuzzling at her neck and collarbone. "You and I are bound together until my last day or yours, my Queen. I can only hope to the gods that you will not hate me before the end."

She nipped at his earlobe, and whispered, "I do not _hate_ you, Aegon." Aegon simply smiled into warm neck, taking that as a victory.

* * *

Daenerys never failed to send a slight shiver down his spine, whenever she turned to look at him. This time was certainly not an exception. From the little feral grin she would give, Aegon always had the distinct feeling that she knew her effect and reveled in it. It was a thought he had to keep from worming into his stomach as he took his seat across from his other wife. Between them was a polished, stately round table. There was intricately carved cabinetry in the side of the room, and candles jutted from their sconces on the wall. Behind Daenerys was a metal lattice made up of fine patterns, roses and thorns, and the cold light of midday flowed in from behind, illuminating her silver hair like a halo. She looked a vision from the gods, and yet the sight of her had begun to put the fear of the Seven Hells in his heart.

"You did not attend the meeting with the representatives from the Iron Bank, dear wife," Aegon said pointedly, mustering his courage.

She waved off his concern. "You were there as a representative of the crown, were you not?"

This rankled him a little. Too often he was treated as the junior partner, and not a king in his own right. "Not a representative, Daenerys. You forget. I _am_ the Crown."

"As am I. You and I are King and Queen Regnant. We speak with one another's authority," Daenerys said coolly, as if he was the petulant one for taking offense. She did not mention it, but Arianne's status was left hanging in the open by omission. He still remembered the conversation he and Arianne had with Daenerys when she descended from the skies after the sack of Oldtown. Daenerys had looked at Arianne like she wasn't even there, nor did she bat an eyelash when Aegon told her he was taking her as the second wife. She had only remarked about how much of a shame it was that Rhaenys had turned traitor to her family, and then told them in no uncertain terms that Arianne would be a Queen _Consort_ , and not regnant. With Drogon snarling behind her back, they were in no real position to argue.

Her dragon frightened him, too. Drogon had always been an unsettling sight, but there was something different about him since her arrival from Essos. The great black dread seemed almost intoxicated, addled of the mind, like someone deep in their cups or of an extremely advanced age. He had become more violent, too, and it was not uncommon for a tearful peasant to bring charred and blackened bones to wherever Aegon held court on their way through the Reach. Daenerys did not busy herself with the business of ruling. Instead, she spent all day in her room, coming out only to greet her dragon and to go into the skies with him.

Aegon sighed, and poured himself a cup of wine. Daenerys refused it when he offered her a goblet. "Did you know that Olenna Tyrell died here, at this very table?" Daenerys asked. "In your very chair, in fact. Or so the servants tell me."

Aegon shook his head no, and took another sip. Daenerys gave him that feral smile again. "The Kingslayer gave her a cup of poisoned wine. It was painless, and quick - doubtless, different from what Cersei had intended for her."

It took all he had not to choke on his drink. He had not seen the servants bring it in, and he cursed himself for even _assuming_. "A small mercy, then. Interesting - I had not taken the Kingslayer for that type of man."

"A traitor with a conscience is still yet a traitor," Daenerys said. "I offered him mercy, and he still chose betrayal. They all did." Her small hands gripped around the armrests of her chair, and for a moment Aegon could have sworn that her fingernails were filthy and long, like the beastly talons of some hag-witch of the woods. 

"And we will punish them," he said, the words ringing hollow in his throat. "The Iron Bank has agreed to provide us with a line of credit. They can front us five million gold dragons, and upon victory, are willing to help finance the reconstruction of King's Landing-"

"And how much are they giving to our enemy?" Daenerys asked.

Aegon's words caught in his throat. "I did not ask, though it would be prudent to assume that they are financing Aemon and Rhaenys. It's the Iron Bank, and Braavos was the one city that did not aid us willingly, or that your legions could not topple or force tribute from."

Daenerys flexed and unflexed her hand. "We did not sack any of the Free Cities. My legions tore through the Bay of Dragons and overthrow those Masters that dared retake their cities from the people. When it came to the colonies of Valyria, Tyrosh, Pentos, Myr, and Lys all paid tribute. Volantis supported us, courtesy of the High Priest Benerro. We did not have time for Lorath, Norvos, or Qohor."

Aegon raised an eyebrow. "Will that be a problem?" In truth, while it was true that Rhaenys' defection had robbed them of time, Aegon still felt uncomfortable with potential enemies at his back. He forced himself to think on the remaining cities. In truth, what harm could Lorath, Norvos, or Qohor pose? Still, something about how quickly the Free Cities had been willing to pay tribute and have Daenerys on her way did not sit well with him.

"Not one that I cannot handle," Daenerys said, self-assuredly.

"While we are on the subject of problems, enlighten me on how precisely we are planning on subduing their dragons," he said. "You have heard the reports from our spies in their camp, yes? Jon and Rhaenys' dragons are larger than Aerax, even though all three were born at the same time. Granted, they are not nearly as large as Drogon, but if either of them were to catch Aerax unawares..."

"It is a consequence of the toppling of the Wall," Daenerys answered confidently. She stood from her chair and went to the latticed window, gazing out down below at the increasingly snow-sprinkled meadows and fields surrounding the castle. "The old magic in them has fed the dragons, the way the magic of Valyria used to feed them. Dragons grow large on it, larger than they ever will on lamb and pig and cow." Aegon gaped at her. How could she possibly know that? Yet she had sounded so sure, as if the answer was known to her and obvious to all.

"Be that as it may," he forced out, "the problem itself still stands."

"I have a way of ensuring Aerax's survival. You will simply have to believe me on that," Daenerys cut him off. "I will wrench their dragons from them. Rhaenys will be offered the chance to submit, but Snow will die screaming."

Aegon stood now, too, irked by her constant obsession with revenge. "My Queen, this war is not just about your personal vendetta against my siblings. We are fighting for the Iron Throne."

"What Iron Throne?" Daenerys shouted, spinning around to glare at him, her eyes wide and unhinged. "The one that Drogon melted to the ground when Jon Snow stabbed me with his lips to mine? The city that I burned to the ground for their betrayal of me? The Iron Throne does not exist, Aegon, and if you want it to, I must have a thousand enemies to burn so that I can take their swords and melt them down to a second throne like a second Aegon. There is no Iron Throne without revenge. There is no Iron Throne until the false dragons of the North have been vanquished. There is no Iron Throne until I've burned them all."

Aegon paced on his side of the table, his boots tapping loudly against the stone. "What is your plan against the dragons, then?"

Daenerys turned back to the window, staring out the lattice-work. "I'll show you tonight."

* * *

With ten men of the Fiery Hand trailing after them, a cart in tow, Aegon and Daenerys set out to the makeshift pit that had become Aerax's home.. 

They followed the cobbled Roseroad out of the castle for ten minutes, before turning to the first dirt road that came up to their left, north of the keep. There was a small hamlet here once, wooden huts and hovels in the shadow of the splendor of the roses, but it had been burned to cinders by the Lannisters when they had destroyed the Tyrells. Night fell when they neared, and the last fading rays of the sun died behind the horizon of the plains. As they passed the ruins of the hamlet, the torches of their guards flickered over the few remaining beams and pillars that once used to support the lives of smallfolk, all of whom were long dead or gone.

"It is strange that Daven Lannister rides out now to bend the knee when only short years ago, the Lannisters were your enemies," Aegon remarked quietly. Between the crackling of the torches, and the hoofbeats of their horses, he was not sure that his voice even carried. Crickets chirped as beings of the night came out into the world.

"These and those are not one and the same," Daenerys replied. "I have no quarrel with Daven Lannister. It is Tywin's brood that I will not tolerate."

"Which leaves only the Imp," Aegon said. "What you are about to do to Aerax..." he trailed off, thinking of Drogon's strange behavior. "Will it harm him?"

"No. It will make him strong," Daenerys said. 

Their journey led them to Aerax's home, the one where he spent most nights when he could not stay at the castle. It was once a small meadow for grazing ringed by stone walls and wooden fencing. He could not see it now, not in the pale moonlight, but he knew the grass there to be charred and burned from Aerax's fire.

In it, Aerax lay still. The dragon only perked his head up when Aegon approached. A gentle wind whistled through the air, brushing Aegon's silver locks over his face. He tucked them behind his ear, and approached his dragon, meeting him eye for eye. Aerax nuzzled his cheek before lowering his head back down into the grass.

He marveled at him. Aerax was lean and strong, but still a little small. He could not measure more than a horse and a half in size, and he could only sustain Aegon in very short rides. They had practiced some, but it was still a new thing for them, and Aegon himself did not have faith that he could seat Aerax long. His dragon could grow strong and fearsome, enough to rival Drogon one day, but present concerns weighed on him. Rumors were that the other two dragons had grown larger, and that the King in the North had been seen flying his for short periods of time. He could not hope to match either of his siblings in battle. On the other hand, Drogon was mighty, but that was only a cold comfort.

The thought of Daenerys' dragon once again made him anxious. Though he assured himself that he was on Daenerys' side, and that once they defeated Aemon and Rhaenys, things would become ideal, what could he possibly do if he ever found himself on the wrong side of Daenerys' ire? What use was he to the barren queen once he and Arianne had borne her an heir of Targaryen blood? If Daenerys ever turned against him, would Aerax be able to withstand the onslaught? Right now, the answer was almost certainly not.

Daenerys dismounted and he followed suit. The Fiery Hand guards hauled an object out of the cart. Aegon did not pay it much mind originally, but now he stared at the great horn they hauled and placed in front of Daenerys. Aerax had a visceral reaction to the object, hissing as he curled back and away from it.

"What's happening?" Aegon said, alarmed. He moved towards Aerax with both his hands up. " ** _Aerax, gīda! Gīda!_** " No matter what, his dragon paid no heed to his pleas for calm. Whatever the horn was, it was _frightening_ his dragon. He'd never seen a dragon have this kind of reaction to anything. He spun back around to Daenerys, rage in his eyes. "Explain yourself!"

Daenerys gave him a withering look. "End your mewling, Aegon. Dragonbinder will give Aerax what he needs, even if he does not want it." Aegon's hand grazed the pommel of his sword, and the Fiery Hand immediately reacted, forming a line between him and Daenerys and drawing their swords. "Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be. Aerax will serve you best after I have fixed him."

Panic gripped Aegon, and he turned back to his dragon. Aerax was wide-eyed, puffing smoke into the air, and drawing as far away from the horn as he could. He backed on his hind legs to the edge of the fenced pasture, and Aegon walked with him. 

_**"Sōves tolmiot hen kesīr!"**_ he commanded. Aerax looked at him once, fear evident in his bright eyes, and heaved up into the air with a powerful blast of his wings, heeding Aegon's command. _**"Sōves tolmiot hen kesīr!"**_ Aegon cried again.

 **" _Ao sytilība naejot nyke, zaldrīzes!_ " **Daenerys shouted. She touched her lips to the horn, and blew.

He did not know what Aerax might have heard, but to Aegon, it was the most fell sound he had ever heard. It was simultaneously high pitched and low, threatening to shatter his eardrums like the pressure of the mountain air. It needled into his mind and burrowed into his skin, and he could hear a whisper in the air, one that seemed to emanate from the hellish horn itself.  
  
 _ **Iksan se zaldrīzes belmurtys. Daor morghūlilare vala kessa elēni nyke se glaesan. Ānogar syt perzys, perzys syt ānogar** , _it said to him.

Aerax tried to fly away, but it was as if there were invisible chains tying him to the ground. He beat his wings furiously in a vain attempt to try and ascend, but his movements were futile, and he was dragged to the ground, landing in the grass. The noise continued long after Daenerys blew it, and even in an open field, it seemed to echo as if bouncing around the four walls of an arena. Aegon rushed to his dragon, cradling his head in his hands. Aerax was still alive, at least, but heaving breaths, and his eyelids remained shut. He pleaded with him to wake in Valyrian, in the common tongue, but Aerax paid him no mind, as if he was in the deepest throes of sleep.

" ** _Aerax, kelis ēdrugon,"_** Daenerys commanded. She stepped next to Aegon, and ran her hands over the scales atop Aerax's head, touching his horns gently.

Aerax's eyes snapped open, and he glared at Aegon while allowing Daenerys to rub his head. Aegon tried to feel a link, a bond, any kind of kinship he had formerly felt with his dragon, but now it felt as if something had been severed.

"Aerax, it's me," Aegon whispered, putting his hand out towards his dragon. Aerax snapped at him, and he stumbled backwards, falling onto the grass. Daenerys turned her head towards him and peered down at him. He felt small, weak, and powerless, the way he felt when he was trapped in the protective custody of the Fire Priests, in a gilded cage in Volantis, or a prison of shadows in Asshai. He had simply traded one servitude for another. Whatever foul magic Daenerys had worked on his dragon, it had turned him into a mindless thing, no longer the intelligent and curious creature bonded to him.

"What have you done with him?" Aegon hissed at Daenerys, as he picked himself up off the ground and slapped dirt from his clothes. "Tell me plain and tell me true."

Daenerys shrugged. "I have given him a master who will show him greatness. Once all four are ours, we shall breed them, and their eggs will be ours. When we light the pyres of the false priests of the Seven, and torch the wild weirwoods of the First Men, we shall birth a new generation of dragons for our successors. And you, dear husband, may have a dragon from among them."

"Aerax is mine," Aegon said sharply. He wanted to pull his sword out now, to sever the head of this witch occupying the body of his aunt, but a sidelong glance at the Fiery Hand let him know he'd never make it out of this alive... and he had Arianne and the babe to fear for. Daenerys Targaryen had been a breaker of chains, a mother to dragons. And now she was nothing but their enslaver. Whoever had died in the ruins of King's Landing was not the same person standing before him now, of that he was certain. Aerax was her slave, and so was Aegon, and he feared that Daenerys would not stop until all Westeros was in chains in the name of liberation.

"He was _never_ yours. My new life brought him to life. I am his mother," Daenerys said simply.

" ** _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor_** ," Aegon snarled. He could cut only with words now, so he cut with them, as futile as it was.

 _" **Kessa, yn Aerax issa daor iā buzdari. Issa ñuha tresy. Se ao, aegon, rūna bisa - valar dohaeris.** " _Her lips curled upwards in a cat-like smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Aerax, gīda! Gīda!" - Aerax, stay calm!
> 
> "Sōves tolmiot hen kesīr!" - Fly far from here!
> 
> "Ao sytilība naejot nyke, zaldrīzes!" - you belong to me, dragon!
> 
> "Iksan se zaldrīzes belmurtys. Daor morghūlilare vala kessa elēni nyke se glaesan. Ānogar syt perzys, perzys syt ānogar" - I am Dragonbinder. No mortal man may sound me and live. Blood for fire, fire for blood.
> 
> "Aerax, kelis ēdrugon." - Aerax, stop sleeping.
> 
> "Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor" - A dragon is not a slave.
> 
> "Kessa, yn Aerax issa daor iā buzdari. Issa ñuha tresy. Se ao, aegon, rūna bisa - valar dohaeris." - Yes, but Aerax is not a slave. He is my son. And you, Aegon, remember this - all men must serve."
> 
> My Valyrian verb conjugations might be fucked up. Sue me. :)
> 
> I had hoped this conversation between Ari and Egg would be a bit of a callback to the honest conversation between Robert and Cersei in S1. I always thought that was one of the most shining examples of adaptational writing this show had ever exhibited. Unlike Robert and Cersei, however, Egg and Ari haven't grown to hate one another yet, and there is still hope for these two as they learn to let down their walls around one another and not just be schemy schemers.
> 
> If they seem OOC (at least in comparison to how they were in earlier chapters), keep in mind that while not really religious, they have seen widespread butchery of the Faith at Daenerys' hands, and even if they don't care for the septons and septas, they do care about how it has set off the smallfolk. There's some growing disillusionment there.
> 
> I think, with Dany going off into the deep end, I really wanted a more humanized "bad guy" (it should be evident now that Egg is not really bad). 
> 
> PS - Don't get me wrong Dany stans - I love Dany as a character, I probably read Jonerys more than any other ship, but I did say up-front in this story that she'd be the big bad endgame villain. If it makes you feel better, there's a lot more inside her body than just her right now, and Aegon's thoughts are close to the mark when he thinks this person is not the aunt that died in Westeros.


End file.
